Lessons in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability
by PiercedBlueCat
Summary: Sherlock is suffering from the aftermath of Serbia, mind and body. John worries and stays at 221b since Sherlock seems withdrawn and hurting. John slowly finds out how bad things really are. He tries to help but Sherlock spirals down into more and more sinister grounds. Doctor!John, Hurt Sherlock. Takes place directly after TEH. 3x01 SPOILERS AHEAD!
1. Chapter 1 - Tuesday

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

_I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

_._

_Takes place about ten days after Sherlock's return, shortly after TEH. Mary is away in the North for advanced training, so John decides he wants to stay at 221b for a few days. Sherlock seems to have been withdrawn since the terrorist case was solved, and, although John said he had forgiven him, Sherlock appears not to have forgiven himself. _

_Things are kind of tense and difficult between them and John sees the need to work on their relationship. A part of him is still angry with Sherlock, yet he is in desperate need to restore their friendship. _

_._

_This chapter was beta-ed by ImaginaryNumber. Many thanks to her! _

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_There is now a Russian Translation of this story. _

_Many thanks to petergirl10 who translated my story!_

_ It must have been so much work and she did it in only a few weeks! Thank you!_

_To find it, go to her profile page: u/5923591/petergirl10_

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**Chapter 1 - Tuesday**

"Bloody hell," John muttered, staring at the sheet of paper in his hands.

"What is it?" Lestrade and Sherlock also stared at the papers that were spread over Lestrade's desk.

"Uh!" Sherlock exhaled, exited.

"What do you see?" Lestrade demanded.

"That's a nasty cocktail…" John started to explain, "This is a drug that is used in ICU for paralysing patients. It needs to be used in combination with sedatives, or the patient experiences a waking nightmare..."

"You are saying the bloke is paralysing and sedating his victims and then killing them?"

"Eh, not really… and that's what's so nasty about it… I can't see anything in here that might work as a sedative," John stated in horror, scanning the sheets for more information.

"This one might even help to ensure the autonomous nervous system works fine," Sherlock added, pointing at a chemical formula that meant nothing to Lestrade.

Sherlock's voice did not carry any hint of emotion.

"Oh God. You are saying they were paralysed but fully awake?"

"Yes," Sherlock stated somewhat impatiently.

"Why?"

"It would take over three hours to go over all the possible answers to that question, so grant me one or two days and I'll have reduced the possibilities to a number that can be explained in… maybe thirty minutes."

John rolled his eyes.

"The thing is, Sherlock, the last two victims were killed at intervals of nine days… The next nine days are over in… five days…"

"How long between their disappearances and their murders?"

"Seven to eight days, depending."

"On what?"

"We don't know yet."

"Why didn't you call sooner?"

"Don't start that discussion again. The first victim … it looked like suicide. I only got into this case last night when the second victim was found in London."

"Where was the first?"

"Plymouth… So in fact you were brought in really fast. Those results came in an hour ago. I called you immediately."

"There are indications here that they are paralysed for at least the last two days of their ordeal," John said, looking up from the report.

.

"Were there IV marks?… How was it administered?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"We don't know. The body is at Barts with Mrs Hooper."

Sherlock turned to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Barts, of course."

"Wait, wait. Let's take the files with us, the ride will take some time during rush hour."

"I'd prefer a cab."

"No," came back from both John and Lestrade.

Now Sherlock was the one rolling his eyes. "You two can take the police car, then. Meet you there." He was out of the door.

"What just happened?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm not really sure... I… He seemed distracted but wouldn't tell me if he was working on another case," John worried aloud.

"He never liked police cars. But this if different… He's… he seems distressed, but that is so unlike Sherlock."

"Or depressed, but that's not like him, either. Something is definitely the matter, I plan to stay over there for a few days to find out what it is."

"You're staying at 221b?"

"Not yet. Going over Thursday night."

"You know chances are high he'll figure out you are there to… watch him?"

"He likely already has, that's probably why he's so distant."

"Maybe. Let's go and pick this up in the car."

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**St Bartholomew's Morgue**

When John and Lestrade arrived, Sherlock was already immersed in a discussion with Molly while inspecting the body with some pincers and a magnifier.

"I found IV marks on the left leg," Sherlock muttered.

"Hi, nice to see you…" Molly looked up to greet John and Lestrade, "That's maybe why they were overseen on the first victim… or the perpetrator used a different technique then, the body of the first victim is on its way over here. I will do the autopsy first thing tomorrow morning."

"Thank you Molly. You are of great help, as usual."

"Oh, you're welcome," she smiled up at him.

John and Lestrade raised their eyebrows and looked at each other, even more puzzled now.

"I'll call you later, Molly. Let's get something to eat?" Sherlock headed for the door. John and Lestrade followed, wondering who Sherlock was addressing.

"Thank you Miss Hooper," Lestrade smiled at her.

"Are you coming with us, Greg?" Sherlock's voice sounded like he was talking on autopilot.

John frowned. What was going on? Had Sherlock just called Lestrade by his first name… accidentally?

Lestrade was too perplexed to say anything, and just followed them to the main entrance. John slowed down and Sherlock finally stopped at the sidewalk lifting his hand to call a taxi. Lestrade caught up with John.

"He just thanked her and he wants to eat lunch… and he called me by my first name!" Lestrade and John were several steps behind Sherlock. "You really need to keep an eye on him."

"Do you think we missed more than one danger night?" John asked in a hushed voice.

"God, you think he...?"

"No!... No, I just don't know what to think. Any one of a hundred possibilities. You knew him back then, when he was… self-medicating."

"Yes, but back then he was not like he is now... Well, maybe the depressed part… but otherwise… no… He was rude and hot-headed, like a spoiled child, doing only what suited him, no matter how inappropriate. Sherlock-when-you-first-met-him multiplied by 10."

"Did he tell you what he was up to during the past 24 months?"

"Not really… He's kind of closed up about it. When he first tried to explain I gave him a bloody nose. Maybe he fears he'll get another one. You?"

"Not really… Though I called him a bastard and hugged him."

"He let you do that, or did he throw a fit?"

"He allowed it."

John raised his eyebrows. "Well, glad you did…. But all in all… this is not good."

Lestrade made an affirming noise. They got within ear-shot of Sherlock and loudly agreed to text each other if there were any news on the case.

They came nearer and a taxi stopped. Sherlock was already getting inside a cab, John thought for a moment that he might leave without him.

When John sat down next to Sherlock he expected a knowing and unnerved gaze that said I-know-what-you've-been-talking-about, but instead, Sherlock sat upright, his back not touching the seat, staring into space.

The cabbie waited for John to nod then started the car.

"Where do you want to eat?" John would go along with whatever Sherlock suggested. The consultant needed to gain some weight; he had become even thinner than he had been before his fake death. He did not look good at all.

"Angelo's."

The cab slid into the constant flow of moving cars.

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_A/N:_

_I'd love to get constructive criticism or some feedback._


	2. Chapter 2 - Wednesday

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

_I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

_..._

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_ ...  
_

**Chapter 2 **

**Wednesday**

John spent the day working at the surgery, and Sherlock convinced Lestrade to let him inspect the scene were the London victim had been found.

Sherlock did not answer a single one of the texts John had sent him over the course of the day, so John stopped by the flat on his way home in the evening. Before the Fall Sherlock would have texted him every hour to tell him about the great discoveries he had made or to complain about how dumb Anderson was.

When John arrived, Sherlock was in the kitchen, trying to recreate the drug cocktail the victims of Lestrade's case where administered. The doctor wondered what he wanted it for, and Sherlock claimed he didn't want it for anything, just wanted to see if he could make the cocktail himself, and its antidote. John suggested it was an ego thing, but Sherlock denied that, yet failed to explain it further. So John asked about news on the case. Which was when Sherlock got unnerved.

"Nothing!"

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean exactly what the words says: not a single thing."

"What? No fibres? No hairs? No wrinkles in a bed sheet to tell you the suspect's weight?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No books or naked cats? Nothing?"

"Three years ago, you did not have this hard of a time understanding common words, did you, John?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry, I just came here to ask for news and to see if you were okay. If the only thing I can get is insults I better go."

He turned to the door and Sherlock ignored him.

John went down the stairs wondering what had gone wrong and why Sherlock was this pissed.

In the tube he texted Lestrade, who suggested he'd called him later.

John hoped that Sherlock would not succeed in recreating the horrible drug and decide it needed testing.

.

He later learned from Lestrade that Sherlock had searched the victim's flat for hours but came up with nothing, absolutely nothing… Neither did anyone else for that matter, but for the consultant this was a first. Greg suspected he was thunderstruck by his failure to come up with anything… or pissed about the fact that the suspect had outsmarted him and leave him without clues. The DI pointed out several times that John should not take it personally. But John regretted having pushed Sherlock away before and was sad that now, when he was ready to rekindle their friendship, it felt as if Sherlock was pushing him away.

"John, there is something you should now. When he came back and you weren't… available, he asked Molly to accompany him."

"I know."

"You know it was just for maybe four cases?"

"I was involved in one of the cases, it was… odd."

"Why, what happened?"

"He talked to you."

"Talked to me?"

"He… was doing a dialogue with you, even telling you to shut up, once. I thought it was nothing but today he…"

John was surprised, "Today..?"

"He… He did it again, just that it wasn't just two or three sentences. He talked to you two hours straight. I kept everybody out of his way."

"I…" John didn't know what to think about this.

"Yeah, this is… odd."

"Yes, I thought you should know… I think he really wants you back, he's just not able to… handle it."

"Probably, thanks for the update. I'll be in Baker Street tomorrow night… Thank you Greg."

They hung up.

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_A/N: _

_Make my day and let me know what you think, please._


	3. Chapter 3 - Thursday

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

_I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

_This chapter was beta-ed by ImaginaryNumber. Many thanks to her._

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**Chapter 3 **

**Thursday **

In the morning, after they both had packed a bag, John dropped Mary off at the station. She would be in Manchester for two weeks to finish her studies, he then headed to the surgery, where he spent the day seeing patients.

After his shift, John picked up Chinese take-out and headed to 221b, where he planned to stay for the next few nights.

While he had waited for their meal to be prepared he sent a text advising Sherlock of his impending arrival, but received no answer. In fact, he had - again - not heard from Sherlock all day, and was longing for the days when Sherlock enthusiastically shared his thoughts with him.

.

The flat was all quiet and only dimly lit when John opened the door to the living room. Sherlock sucked in air in surprise and jerked upright on the sofa, startled by the noise. It seemed he had indeed been asleep if the disoriented look and his fluttering eyes were any indication.

"John?"

"Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

What was the matter with him? Sherlock looked like death warmed over.

"I'm not startled..." Clearly a lie. "What are you doing here?"

John took in Sherlock's appearance casually while putting the food on the table and getting some dishes, bowls and cutlery. Then passed the other man again, observing, while bringing his jacket to the wardrobe.

Sherlock's eyes were sunken and dark, and he was pale, like he hadn't had a good rest for weeks. His hair was sticking to his skull and he looked as if he hadn't showered for at least two days. The dressing gown was rumpled and the pyjama pants were even worse.

"I told you I'd stay over for a few days, you know, solving some cases, having some fun, watching crap telly..."

"You're sure you told me?"

"Yes. Though not sure you listened… Any news on the case?" John changed the subject before it became awkward in a more negative way.

"Lestrade sent some reports, now that they are digging deeper they might have found another victim… from Bristol. The body was already on the way to the burial site when they retrieved it.

"Great, grieving family having their daughter's funeral without her body."

"Son."

John raised his eyebrows, "Doesn't matter for the grieving ones who are interrupted that way."

"Maybe they'll bury it empty for show and not tell the rest of the family. Would probably be easier with the sentiment thing."

"God! Sherlock…"

"Didn't mean it that way… I meant it might be more clement to let them go on with their good-byes rather than prolong the suffering…"

"Please spare me anything that would remind me of your funeral, or empty coffins for the next week, could you?"

Sherlock looked up, a silent 'oh…' on his lips. He did in fact look like he was sorry now, that he had finally understood why John was sensitive to the topic.

"To you, it might have been a small detail, to make the whole suicide-thing more convincing, but to me, attending your funeral was one of the hardest things I've done in my life… So show at least a bit of consideration for the hurt you caused with this little detail, okay?" John's tone was not angry, just sad and tired.

His words visibly affected Sherlock.

John had forgiven him and was more than glad to have him back, but he was still angry and he still hurt - a lot. He wanted Sherlock to understand the enormity of the pain he had caused by keeping him in the dark. He was sure his former flatmate wouldn't have reappeared the way he did if he had the smallest inkling about how inappropriate it was.

Well, now, about two weeks later, he behaved as if he was at least starting to understand.

The silence was growing awkward. After a few seconds, Sherlock gestured towards the files and pictures that were spread over the coffee table.

"Yes… Male victim, police was sure it was… sorry, but… a suicide… No coroner report therefore, yet. The similarity between this death and the other ones brought it to the police's attention. The drug probably won't show any longer, it seems to break down quickly…"

"Maybe the paralysing agent, but there were other drugs in the mix. Maybe some were slower to break down?… Can you show me the components again?"

Sherlock held out a sheet without looking up.

"Do you know these two?" John pointed at two chemicals he was unfamiliar with.

Sherlock stood up, looking at the sheet, "That… Designer drug, expensive, rare. Might show on an extra thorough tox screen, that other one… no."

"Any news about the autopsy from the Plymouth victim that Molly wanted to do today?

"She didn't. Corpse wasn't there, yet."

"Why?"

"No one knows. Lestrade told Donovan to look into it."

Sherlock stiffly rose and reached for his coat on the back of the door.

"Now, let's go see Molly. The Bristol victim will be there shortly…"

"No! Molly's shift ended an hour ago and I brought dinner. Let's eat and look at the file so we know what to look for in the morning."

"I already know what to look for," Sherlock returned the coat to the hook.

"Then enlighten me."

"I'll text Molly to see if she's still at work," the detective insisted.

"She has a boyfriend now, and will likely be eager to get home."

Sherlock was already texting.

"I'm hungry, let's eat."

"You are free to eat, I'll have a shower," and with that the other man headed for the bathroom.

John followed him but then turned to the fridge to check what was inside.

When he opened it, he sighed. There was bagged salad that had already started decomposing, some milk that wasn't really liquid any more, some clear containers with unidentifiable red goop in the compartment Sherlock used for experiments… and several bottles of medication, probably to do with the experiments about the drug.

Was Mrs Hudson preparing meals for the detective? Was he eating regularly?

John would need to keep an eye on that and ask the landlady about it again. She had told him some time ago that she tried to feed Sherlock.

He returned to the table and opened the box of butter chicken while he reflected on their interaction.

Things with Sherlock had never been particularly smooth, but before the Fall, they had had a comfortable routine. Now, everything was awkward and rocky. The doctor knew what his problem was: Sherlock's deception still hurt, though he wanted it to stop hurting so they could continue their friendship.

But what was Sherlock's problem? Was he angry because John had not welcome him back with open arms? Because he had hit him as a welcome-back-greeting?

The consultant detective took his time in the shower and John wondered if staying over for a few days was such a good idea after all.

Maybe it was too soon. Was he invading Sherlock's privacy?… Was his former flatmate telling him he was not happy about John's plan?

No, if that was the case, he'd say so directly, not leave subtle clues, at least to that, John was certain.

Sherlock came out of his room dressed in a tightly closed fresh dressing gown and warm pyjamas underneath, it seemed.

Molly must have answered then and told him she wasn't at Barts, otherwise Sherlock would already be fully dressed. But the tall man sat down on the sofa again and started elaborating on his few ideas and thoughts on the case without preamble.

.

Three hours and a boring documentary later John decided to head to bed while Sherlock continued to ponder the facts. He was lying on the sofa in the familiar pose with hands under his chin, ignoring the doctor completely.

John smiled with the realisation how grateful he was to get the gift of seeing that again. After Sherlock's 'death' he had so often stared at the sofa and wished him to be lying there. The wish had been granted… he had been heard.

He bit his lips, overwhelmed with this thought and the memory. He fought the emotions down, no need for Sherlock to see this, he'd probably not understand.

Maybe he needed to show Sherlock clearly how grateful he was to have him back, and that he wanted him in his life. Well, this was what this was all about. He hoped Sherlock would understand.

All the trust John seemed to have earned and the access to Sherlock's feelings and innermost thoughts he had been granted before the Fall seemed to have vanished. Had that happened before or after Sherlock's return?

John wondered if asking Mycroft about it would be good idea. Probably not, though the two brothers were meeting more frequently than they had in the past, or so it seemed to John. The fact that his parents had been in the flat made him wonder if Sherlock's family was as worried as he was. The detective was so withdrawn, chances were high he was not like this just with John, which made the doctor feel better in some ways, but overall made the situation even more worrisome.

Some time later John stored Sherlock's uneaten meal in the fridge and went up the stairs with his duffel bag.

His room was in a habitable state, as he had slept there already once the previous week. When he had moved out two years ago he had left many of things there, because he couldn't handle the memories of the old flat. Now he was glad it was the way it had been then. The bed felt good, so familiar… so safe… so much like home… The impression that he was an invader in here evaporated and he slept.

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_A/N:_

_Please review, I am eager to know what you think._


	4. Chapter 4 - Friday – On the road

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: not my characters, see the beginning of the first chapter for details._

_I am not a native speaker, so if my English is a bit bumpy sometimes please forgive me._

_To those who were so nice to write a review: Thank you very much for the feedback, you are great! I love to read what you think. :)_

_Beta-ed by ImaginaryNumber._

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**Chapter 4 **

**Friday – On the road**

The next morning, when John went downstairs and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, he showered and left for the surgery, glad today's shift would be short.

He returned to 221b at 14:15, and Sherlock was halfway down the stairs, clad in his coat, before John had stepped inside.

"Finally!"

"You were waiting for me? I didn't get the text… if you sent one," John frowned.

"Yes. I didn't text you, so you couldn't have known… so I didn't expect you to know."

"Really?"

"Can we stop this nonsense and go?" Sherlock hurried past him through the door. By the time John had closed the door behind himself, the other man had already raised his hand to hail a cab.

John shook his head in disbelieve.

"What's going on?"

"We're going to Bristol."

"What?"

"I arranged a visit to the crime scene."

"We're going alone?"

"'We' and 'alone' in the same sentence is a bit of a contradiction, wouldn't you say?"

"What I meant is: Are we going by ourselves; Lestrade is not coming with us?"

"He's busy, and he trusted me to behave appropriately."

"Did he now?" John grinned.

Had Lestrade told Sherlock not to talk aloud to people who weren't there?… Had Sherlock waited for him because having him around would make Sherlock's talking to thin air less suspicious?

"Why are you trying to get a cab then?"

"To get to the station."

"Let's take my car."

"Why?"

"Because after working the morning shift I'd like some peace and quiet."

"And you get that while driving?"

"Yes. No, but so more than I would on a train."

"Okay."

John grinned, and hoped it would not be an awkward trip.

It took quite a while to get out of London, but finally they were driving westward on the A4.

Sherlock was not eager to talk it seemed, so John started to make conversation.

"Any news about the victim from the Plymouth crime scene?"

"I was with Molly this morning when she did the autopsy."

"And?"

"There were no IV marks, so we hypothesized that she was given the cocktail orally. This was confirmed by an analysis of her saliva."

"Anything else?"

"The clothes she had on when she was found were fresh, probably taken from her wardrobe. No signs that someone else dressed her, though the perpetrator might have helped her. Talcum from gloves on several spots."

"That's odd. So, that's something then, isn't it? Anything else?"

"I have been asked to be present for an… event… or aftermath of an old case, depends."

John blinked at the unexpected topic change and studied Sherlock for a moment.

"What kind of event?"

"Celebration at a London Buddhist temple."

"Eh, can we finish that other topic, first?"

"As you wish."

"Do we know yet why the delivery of the body was delayed?"

"No. Is this topic finished now?"

"Do you plan to investigate the delay?"

"Why?"

"Because it feels odd."

"Molly said the same. She informed me that in her whole professional life this had only happened once before… and back then the body was accidentally switched, causing some nasty headlines."

"Okay, so what temple?"

Sherlock made a noise, and it took John about five seconds to realise that it was a word, but not an English word; maybe a name.

"What? What happened there?"

"Nothing. I was invited to attend a ceremony…"

"I got that, what case? When? Why?"

"I helped out at a temple in the Himalayas and was invited because I saved the… doesn't matter." Sherlock suddenly remembered his decision not to tell John about the cases he had solved by himself or during his hiatus. He wanted to prevent John from getting… jealous, or something.

"Where?"

Sherlock made another sound and this time, John didn't even realise it was a name.

"What? Why do I have to fight for every tiny bit of information, here?"

"Most Buddhist temples are in Asia."*

"You were in Asia?"

"Obviously..."

"You actually spent time in a temple?"

"Few weeks. It was a very interesting experience."

"What did you do there?"

"Why is that relevant?"

"I'm interested in what you did the past two years."

Sherlock now had a dubious expression on his face.

"I do want to know what you were up to," John said again, hoping his sincerity was coming across.

"What for?"

Did John want to feel left out, so he could throw another fit? Or did he have another motivation for asking these questions? "Did Mycroft offer you something for getting details?"

"God, Sherlock…"

"He did offer before, so…"

"You've been such a dick, lately! Do you want me out of the flat, out of your life? Then please, just say so!"

"I… NO!" The horrified look on Sherlock's face made it clear he was insulted and surprised by the question and the suggestion.

"Well, you act like you do. Ignoring me, withdrawing, shutting me out… feels unwelcome."

"I'm not yet really… acclimatised to having the pleasure of a companion again." His former flatmate sounded hesitant. Either this was a whole-hearted confession, or Sherlock was making fun of the doctor.

"Are you pulling my leg?" John asked in a soft voice, now much more careful.

"No," was Sherlock's simple reply.

Sherlock felt the tension still hovering in the air, the same one that had built up in the restaurant, immediately after his first meeting with John… It felt like an stale sickly beige thin mist and clouded their interaction.

Sherlock wanted it gone - it felt not good - but he did not know how to help it dissolve. He knew he had hurt John, more like he ever thought he could hurt anyone.

He was still not sure if John wanted him back in his life, though he had said he had forgiven Sherlock for it, he seemed… hesitating. Sherlock assumed that forgiving was something completely different from wanting something back… John had said he'd need time to come to terms with the whole thing. Sherlock had been irritated when John announced he wanted to stay over.

Was John here to do that? Coping? Was there even a chance that things could be back to the way they had been?

"I didn't mean to insult you…," Sherlock stated when John kept silent.

"Stop, there are two topics getting mixed up here! A: me with you in this, and B: you being closed up about the past two years… apparently, not only with me, but with Mycroft, too."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line.

Which made it obvious to John that this was not only still difficult for him.

"So you do want me around?" John ventured.

Sherlock didn't react.

"Blimey! Sherlock, do you want me back in your life?"

"I just said that… and I thought all my interactions during that terrorist case had made that quiet clear," Sherlock pressed out, affronted.

"No, you said that you were not used to having the pleasure of a companion; you said nothing about wanting me as one, or wanting one at all…"

"Who else would I want?"

That statement left John speechless; he pinched the back of his nose.

"Would you take me back?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, not looking at John.

Was he ashamed? If he was, it was definitely a first.

"Of course I do. Why do you think I am here?" John stated softly.

"Don't know, bored?"

"No, Sherlock, I'm usually not bored. I want to spend time with you."

John saw the other man's state of confusion more clearly now. Sherlock had definitely not expected their reunion to be like this.

But what had he expected? That everything would be as it had been before? He couldn't have been that dumb. But he looked totally confused about it. He had clearly wished it to be different. This conversation was out of character for the detective. Had his short episode of rejection left such a dent in Sherlock's trust? What the hell was happening?

Sherlock again stared blindly ahead, and John waited in silence for any more attempts at conversation.

"Thank you," he finally said, after what seemed like several minutes.

"For what?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse.

"For telling me."

They hadn't been this open and direct before; it was difficult for both of them, even this tiny bit. John knew they were both stiff with hesitation about the awkwardness of Sherlock's return, but the first steps towards restoring their friendship had been made, and that was enough for the time being. "Tell me about the temple."

Sherlock did, but he left out if and how this was connected to Moriarty's web. It would have taken him approximately twenty-seven and a half hours to elaborate on that and he was not eager to relive that all right then.

About two hours later they arrived at the Bristol police station.

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_* If I identified it right, the monastery shown in the mini-episode is actually in Nepal, it must be Thyangboche (Tengboche) Monastery with the Ama Dablam in the Background, near the Everest._

…

_A/N:_

_Constructive criticism welcome._


	5. Chapter 5 - Friday – The crime scene

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 5 **

**Friday – The crime scene**

They spoke to the DI responsible for the case before SY had taken over. His name was Green. He introduced himself kindly but didn't try to shake hands.

"So, our body is in London, and the London detectives are here."

"I'm a consulting detective and not officially employed by Scotland Yard."

"Doesn't matter; I was told you're good and to assist you," Green looked at John, "So who are you?"

"Dr. John Watson, nice to meet you."

"Oh, handy to have a doctor at crime scenes, forensics?"

"No, I usually prefer them breathing," John smiled, "Former Army doctor."

"Oh, seen the world then?"

"Some hot and sandy spots, yeah."

"Uh…" the DI muttered, as if he knew what that meant, "Glad to have you here. This case was really odd. You want some coffee?"

"Yes," John answered, in need of caffeine.

"I'd prefer to go to see the crime scene right away," Sherlock said, in his usual hurry, "Odd in which way?"

"The family was convinced their son never would have committed suicide… and when we called the body back they seemed relieved that the investigation was resumed. The scene was so clean, you know, usually suicides are… I don't know, different… feel different," Green explained, handing over cups with fresh coffee from his own machine. Then shoving sugar and milk in their direction.

"What way?" Sherlock asked.

Was the man really describing how the scene felt?

He had never met anybody beside himself who considered this a valid point. He accepted the coffee and sat down, his hurry to leave forgotten.

"It was so… neat… clean, no signs of distress, no signs of depression, no signs of somebody needing comfort. It's hard to describe."

"Try! What does needing comfort look like?"

"I don't know… used handkerchiefs, meds, alcohol or drugs, cosy bed, used pillows on the ground to make it more comfortable, pictures, memorabilia of better days, reminders of any sort," Green listed what came to his mind, "It's hard to describe, you know, all those things people might want to have with them when they end their lives."

"Alright, those are probably not different from those one chooses for general comfort," John said. He had seen his share of suicides in Afghanistan and he remembered finding tokens of emotional comfort with most of the victims: pictures, a strand of hair, jewellery.

"I mean, what would you want to have with you?" John asked, it was a rhetorical question.

"I never thought about it, to be honest," Green stated.

"I think that what one wants to have accompany them while dying varies profoundly by personality. I'd prefer to have a person I care about nearby," Sherlock stated, and John almost dropped the cup of coffee he was still holding.

He looked at Sherlock and suddenly it became very clear to him what Sherlock had only hinted at, , when they talked about the fall before. That when Sherlock had been standing on that roof he hadn't been sure if he'd survive the whole thing… It was written all over Sherlock's face right now, how bad it had been to stand there… and the insight hit John like a punch in the face.

Sherlock looked down, regretting to not have kept his mouth shut; he looked like his own memories had punched him, too.

John felt a rush of anger about having this bomb thrown at him in public and without warning. But this might be Sherlock's only way to share these feelings; spontaneously gushing out at brief moments of lacking self restraint. John wondered why the other man seemed to have a lot of those lately.

To make the whole thing even more awkward, he remembered the moment when he had sat in the flat, shortly after Sherlock's funeral, and held the violin…

No, don't go there.

He sipped the coffee, just to doing something to keep him in the present.

.

Sherlock watched John sipping the coffee.

The doctor had paled considerably during the discussion after Sherlock's remark he kicked himself mentally for mentioning it.

Had he said something wrong?

Obviously.

All the protect-John's-feelings-routines he had established still failed miserably.

He just wanted John to know that he was grateful for his friend's presence when he stood at the roof.

Though the lies he had needed to tell, and the fact that he knew he'd have to leave John in London to protect him had caused the worst attacks of sentiment he had had in years...

Standing there alone, he had cried for the first time in decades. And as much as the tears fit the act, they were honest tears, provoked in no small part by the knowledge that he had to part ways with John, and leave him in the dark… it had shaken him.

Whenever he said something concerning the past two years or how he was with all this, John was… emotionally bad somehow….

Both of them needed to heal, but no matter how careful, superficial or sensitive he tried to be, he just seemed to be causing more hurt. He was not used to being this incompetent - at anything.

It was like running a stony path in the dark, wounds bound to occur.

Was this what helplessness felt like?

Lately, many of their interactions and conversations had the bad after tone of a minefield. He was at a loss how to erase that.

Not knowing how to handle the feelings this situation had caused, he looked for the nearest exit.

Fast.

"Eh, yeah. I'd like to go to the scene as soon as possible, we need to get back to London tonight and it's a long drive. Thank you for the coffee," Sherlock pushed, downing his coffee as fast as he could. He saw John frown while carefully sipping the hot liquid.

"Sure… I'll go with you. Here are copies of the original crime scene pictures, taken minutes after the victim was found," Green handed over a Manila folder, "The scene is still untouched. The family was not able to go there, yet."

"None of them?"

"No… too much of a trauma I guess. We'd have gone in there with anybody who wished to enter, but no one did."

"That's odd. Who identified the victim?" John wanted to know.

"The sister, at the morgue."

"Okay, let's go then," Sherlock put his mug down and nodded towards the door.

.

Half an hour later they were combing through the flat.

Signs of a typical suicide were indeed missing.

One couldn't even guess where - in the neat and tidy place - the victim had been found. At first glance, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nothing indicated it was a crime scene at all.

"The London victim's flat looked perfectly normal, as well," Sherlock explained.

The young man had been found on his stylish white designer sofa. As if he had fallen asleep watching the telly and never woke up.

"The TV was on when we arrived and…"

"Which channel?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Some drama, but we don't know what was on when he died, so no telling what he was watching. Not yet, at least."

John looked up at the ceiling. He bet that instead of answering the question, half the detectives at SY would have stupidly asked why the TV channel was important. Their companion was refreshingly open to everything thrown his way.

Sherlock stood in front of the sofa and held the picture of the man on the sofa in front of him, like watching the corpse.

Then he took a step to the left to stand in the exact same position the photographer had stood. His gaze wandered from the table to the ceiling and the left armrest of the designer furnishings. Then he knelt in front of the sofa, inspecting the surface closely.

"White leather, almost impossible to find any talcum on this," Sherlock murmured.

"Talcum?" Green repeated.

"Yes, the clothes of the Plymouth victim were stained with residue of talcum, from gloves."

"As far as I know there was not talcum here at all."

"Non-sterile gloves are packed without talcum, or with only a very small amount," John offered.

"Right," Sherlock mused and then bowed down to look under the sofa, which was funny to watch, because he fetched the tail of his coat to make sure it didn't touch anything, and because the underside of the sofa was only about two inches above the ground.

"John, go to the backside and shine a light under the sofa so I can see if there's anything under it," Sherlock ordered and held out an electrical torch John had never seen before.

He did as the detective had asked and Sherlock all but pressed the side of his head into the carpet to peek under the sofa with his left eye.

"Ah!" He yelled in triumph, startling John and Green alike.

John tried to get a glimpse of what Sherlock had found, too, but it was no use.

"Help me move it," Sherlock gestured at the sofa.

It was a very heavy object and Sherlock insisted they lift and not drag it.

When they bent, John saw him close his eyes briefly, before they lifted it on three.

They sat it down a meter to the back, trying not to step on the area now revealed.

Sherlock unfolded his magnifier and started inspecting the floor.

In the middle of the uncovered space were cuticle scissors, two half pistachios and half a shell, dust, and the back of a silver ear stud.

"Evidence bags, please," Sherlock held out his now gloved hand without looking.

John rolled his eyes and handed him three bags and a pair of tweezers. The consulting detective bagged all items and labelled them neatly.

Combing through the living room took almost an hour, the bedroom another half hour, nothing there. There was also a study and the kitchen, which was a part of the living room.

When Sherlock found a laptop he booted it.

After several minutes of clicking through a mailing-application and two social-network-programs Sherlock exclaimed, "Yes, yes, yes!"

John and Green had been standing behind him and watching his hands fly over the keyboard. John had the impression Sherlock's computer skills had improved. He had been good with computers, but not this good and fast before.

Finally Sherlock started a search for files containing the word 'guy4*' and another one that searched 'files that were modified since the 3rd' via Windows Explorer and waited.

"Take us through it, please," John reminded him to share his thoughts.

"He was neither dating nor having a relationship, the latter we already expected, because his relatives said so. He was hetero, and in his mid twenties, he was visited by couples, but he preferred to hang out with his male friends. They sometimes did some heavy drinking and did bad practical jokes… He was visited by a gay couple, and by his sister… and a stranger came by… whom he knew only in passing."

"How do you know?" Green asked.

"Well, he liberally inflicted his leisure-time schedule on the world… Faceblah-yada, chirping-and-so on and all that 'abolish-privacy'-nonsense people do online nowadays."

John chuckled.

"He told the internet all about whom he met and when and why, but the date he went on two days before he vanished from the face of the earth for seven days is not mentioned anywhere!"

"Seven days?" Green asked

"Yes, his family told us they saw him last on the 3rd of November, the body was found on the 11th… Family tried to contact him but didn't check on him… He was here for almost 14 hours before he was killed. The computer was used on the 10th for several hours. System files have been changed on the 10th and 11th."

"How do you know the other stuff?"

There are dried bodily fluids on the surface of the leather sofa… I found them when looking for talcum… I'm quite sure it's saliva and tears… Due to the position where the victim's head was found. He must have laid on that sofa paralysed for quite some time, more than a few hours, I'd say. Otherwise the fluids wouldn't have left such clearly visible residues… Although he didn't post who he was with. One of the posts mentions a 'guy4578'… He was not online dating. The username appears nowhere else… Chances are good it was a superficial acquaintance he met for the first time or for the first time longer than 'briefly'. One of them was in a hurry and instead of exchanging phone numbers they wrote down their usernames," Sherlock explained. His deduction was as fast as usual.

"4578 is a combination of numbers that suggests the account was supposed to be short lived. It's the square of the four upper numbers on the left side of the numpad on the keyboard. Lazy people use those, or those who plan to use an account only temporarily and want to remember the login easily. I'm sure the person was male, most women would chose a more personal nick… and probably avoid the word 'guy', although there's a chance for intentional misleading…"

"We got it, Sherlock."

"I didn't find any accounts on social networks with this username that are likely to belong to our perpetrator."

"What did you find?" Green asked.

"A twelve year old boy from Japan and a funster from Greece claiming he found Metropolis… I mean Atlantis I'd understand, but Metropolis… It seems to be a fake nick-name. Deleted accounts usually stay in the system for quite some time. I'll have it checked, though. I want to take the computer for further analysis."

"Okay. I'll do the paperwork," Green agreed.

Sherlock did another sweep through the kitchen but found nothing else he interpreted as important.

Half an hour later they said their good-byes and headed for John's car.

…

* * *

_…_

_A/N:  
It's about to get intense in the next chapter… I mean Sherlock's problems will really start to show._

_Please let me know what you think._


	6. Chapter 6 - Saturday

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_This chapter was beta-ed by ImginaryNumber. Many thanks to her.  
Also a big thank you to Oleta who pointed out mistakes and helped me by explaining them to me._

…

* * *

…

**Chapter 6**

** Saturday**

They had returned from Bristol late the day before, thanks to a large traffic jam it was one in the morning before John finally fell into his bed. It had been a very long day and he just wanted to sleep.

Saturday morning Sherlock was flat on his back on the sofa when John entered the living room. His face was tense and John was therefore sure that he was awake so he didn't hesitate to speak.

"Want some tea?"

Sherlock jerked upwards, jumping of the sofa.

John was so startled about the reaction, he stood there, mouth open and gaping.

"Easy, easy, just me."

The detective's face showed a minute hint of real distress before the mask slipped in place, John saw he suppressed his urge to pant, using an enormous amount of willpower.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

Since when was Sherlock so jumpy?

"It's okay, I'm not startled," Sherlock pressed out.

"What was that then? Testing how fast you could get up?" John tried to joke.

Sherlock said nothing, hurried into the kitchen and put the kettle on, "Tea?"

"Yes, thank, you."

Since when did Sherlock make tea for himself in the morning? Usually it was Mrs Hudson, now that John was no longer living there.

"Any news?"

"Texted Molly to ask if she found anything interesting. No answer yet."

John vanished into the bathroom while the other man started to read the newspaper, standing up in front of the kitchen table, bending over it.

.

Fifteen minutes later John emerged and they had breakfast. Sherlock ate some biscuits at least.

During their meal Sherlock's mobile beeped, he immediately fetched it and opened the text message.

"Molly has results," Sherlock jumped up and vanished into his bedroom, only to come back two minutes later, fully dressed but still unshaven.

John hastily munched the last piece of his toast and downed the rest of his tea.

"Give me a minute to get dressed and then we can go."

"Fast, John."

"Yeah, you'll need your time to shave, so no need to push me."

"Shave?"

"Unless you're going for the two-day-old beard-look now."

"Oh. Forgot."

John raised his eyebrows; that was a first. The longest period John had seen Sherlock not shave was when he went undercover once, constantly complaining about the sensory input the stubbles gave him and the itch.

"You _forgot_?"

"Yes, problem? Not used to it, lately."

"What?"

How was he not…? Sherlock _had_ been undercover recently, yes.

"Hurry, John. I want to leave as soon as possible… Still glad you shaved it off, though."

John stood there, frowning for two seconds, then went to get dressed, a grin on his face. Why was this moustache thing such a big topic? Sherlock had returned to it repeatedly.

Ten minutes later they left the house.

"We can take my car," John offered when Sherlock raised his hand for a cab.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed, again.

.

They entered the morgue half an hour later, looking for Molly.

Three bodies were on the tables and Molly entered a minute after them, while Sherlock was already searching through the report that was on the nearby desk. The smell in there was even worse than usual.

"Oh, hallo," she greeted, "I just needed a coffee break, no more great insights yet, besides the results I already texted you."

"I'm glad to watch," Sherlock offered, "May I take a look myself?"

"Of course."

John stood nearby, once more with raised eyebrows.

Had Sherlock just politely asked?

Molly acted not really surprised. The doctor had known Sherlock had regular contact with her over the past two years, which made him feel shut out once more.

Sherlock's and Molly's dynamics had obviously changed or at least shifted. The consultant had hinted she had been on a case with him and Greg had told him some details.

The doctor didn't know which cases it had been, but Sherlock had obviously trusted her with them. He discovered he felt the slightest bit of jealousy. But according to Greg it had only happened after John refused him.

Well, for some reason they were not doing it any longer and had not done it for long. Maybe because of Molly's boyfriend? He seemed to be a nice guy.

They did the autopsy of the Bristol victim together. Molly hinted she had switched two autopsies and done the other one yesterday, so Sherlock and John could join her today.

.

Two and a half hours later they had determined that the this victim definitely did not have any needle marks anywhere. Instead, Molly found residue of the same mixture of substances the man had been drugged with on his skin, which was odd. But Sherlock determined quickly that the young man had been forced to swallow several doses of it, in that progress some of the liquid had been spilled and landed on his temple, his throat and his ear.

They also found some unknown fibres under his right toenail, which they compared to the socks the man had worn when he died, but they were different and the fibre didn't look like anything used to make clothing at all.

All other fibres and fluids they found were collected as usual and put into specimen containers for a later lab analysis.

In the early afternoon they agreed to have a short break and meet in the cafeteria after lunch, since Molly had an appointment.

.

Much to John's dismay Sherlock stepped outside to smoke.

"When did you start again?" he complained when they sat down in a corner.

"Some months ago."

"Why?"

"There were many things more important than fighting the need for nicotine."

"Really? Like what?"

"Surviving for example, keeping my limbs…" Sherlock stated absently, obviously not really listening to what he was saying.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" The doctor wondered if Sherlock would shut the door in his face if he started to ask directly about it, "How many times have you…"

"Enough times to smoke again, obviously," Sherlock interrupted, that was clearly a door. Why was Sherlock so clamped up about his hiatus? Because John had refused to listen when he first tried to tell him how he faked his death? Was Sherlock just ratty about it or was there more?

"We should go to Scotland Yard, as soon as we're finished here. Probably faster than faxing the stuff, waiting for Donovan to read it and then tell Lestrade who then calls…" Sherlock seemed to talk just to divert him from the original question.

A few seconds later he stumped out the cigarette and hurried back in, John followed.

.

They spent the next two hours in the lab but found no further clues, or at least none Sherlock would get excited about or that made him bristle with ideas. If he had some he kept them to himself.

He didn't talk a lot at all.

Sherlock texted Lestrade sometime during the day to ask if they could come over but Lestrade wasn't at SY.

_'I'll come over tomorrow, we can discuss case then. Lestrade.'_

Sherlock read out the text, his face showing he was irritated about being rejected.

"Well, good. We'll have some time to chat then. Last time I saw Lestrade in a relaxed atmosphere was… well, months ago," John informed.

.

Evening found John and Sherlock in front of the telly again.

John had cooked to make sure Sherlock ate properly, which he did.

They spend time on their laptops, John mailing Mary and Sherlock researching things he wouldn't elaborate on.

John went to bed early.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_  
_Constructive criticism welcome._


	7. Chapter 7 - Sunday morning

**_Lessons in Friendship 8 - Aftermath_**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

.

_I am not a native speaker and this is unbeta-ed, please try to ignore my grammar mistakes… or tell me where they are :)_

.

**_IMPORTANT NOTE:  
_**_It took me a while to update because I finally came to the decision this was getting to big (I am currently writing chapter 20 or something), I was doing two things at once: Working through Sherlock's and John's friendship issues with Sherlock's return and doing the case fic. When I started this story I put the two things together because I already wrote the story of the aftermath of Sherlock coming back in 'Lessons in Friendship 6 – Danger Night' and didn't want to do it twice within the series. But I published that one months before TEH was broadcasted, and so – naturally – when TEH was finally out it kind of became AU. _

_Since I want to do things in canon I decided to make a 'real' one again in combination with a case fic, but it didn't work out, so I decided to and label 'Danger Night' AU and separate the two things. Because the 'Define Vulnerability'-thing is getting to big and neither the aftermath of the fall nor the case gets done with the necessary concentration I like to do on things. So from here I will divide the thing. This will stay the first part/introduction/prequel of the story 'Define Vulnerability' but it will be 'Lessons in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability' as the main title. 'Define Vulnerability' will be in a new story and picks up where this ends, I will post it when this is finished. _

_Sorry for the confusion._

…

* * *

...

**Chapter 7**

**Sunday morning**

When John entered the kitchen the next morning, Sherlock was sitting on the armrest of John's armchair, manipulating his left leg's calf muscles.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing. Cramp," Sherlock's face showed nothing of the pain, just his anger about being bothered by his transport.

"Sit down," John ordered.

"I am sitting."

"No, you're leaning against the chair. Sit down properly."

"What for?"

"To let me have a look at it."

"No," Sherlock straightened and then tried to walk away, his face contorted slightly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm going to the bathroom. I need a leak."

John rolled his eyes.

Fine, if he wanted privacy for his pain...

The door was shut not too gently and John put on the kettle and sighed inwardly.

A few minutes later the shower was switched on.

John started to make himself breakfast and he decided to let Sherlock run aground for a change with breakfast today. He had refused to eat every morning they had seen each other. Now he fixed breakfast only for himself… he wanted to find out what would happen. Mrs Hudson was away today and she wouldn't bring up tea.

The kitchen table was still covered with Sherlock's latest experiments so he sat down in the living room to eat.

Ten minutes later Sherlock went to his room for fresh clothes and came back to sit on the sofa, busy with unwrapping fresh nicotine patches.

The doctor didn't comment and just waited.

After applying just one patch Sherlock fetched his phone and started typing. He did not give the impression of someone who was wondering about anything… or was aware about a companion.

Just like old times, John thought.

He had wished to get _this_ back, to sit at the table eating while Sherlock was rummaging around the flat ignoring him… now he _had_ it.

Why wasn't he overwhelmed with joy?

Maybe because it had the bitter taste of not being welcome.

Sherlock had said he wanted him here and was just no longer accustomed to a companion… What could that possibly mean, except the pure meaning of the words? That Sherlock had been quite alone the whole time, probably acting alone, no backup, no one's company?

Had he missed John?

Maybe he had, but confessing that would be a whole different thing.

Or had he already?… Yes, he _had_ said he wanted only him, considering how emotionally Sherlock usually was this was quite a confession about how he was missing him.

But John needed more, the diffuse way how his former flatmate hinted at possible feelings was not enough.

John needed to know he was not just an object, useful when needed… he couldn't endure any kind of being treated like that ever again. He needed some kind of proof of … loyalty?… at least some sign of friendship.

Before John could think about it any further the doorbell rang.

Sherlock ignored it.

When it rang for the second time Sherlock yelled, "Mrs Hudson!"

"She's not home, remember? She's away with her… friend."

"Lover would be more accurate."

"Eh…" John moaned but also didn't rose. It was Sherlock's flat now, he'd have to open the door himself.

It rang again.

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled and John grinned.

This was just like old times… and in a good way.

The next moment Sherlock's phone rang, and when the other man picked up a voice on the other end could be heard, simultaneously someone banged at the front door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally went to answer it.

A few moments later Lestrade and Sherlock entered the living room.

"Hey," the DI greeted John.

"Oh, hi."

"Sherlock, I swear, next time you don't let me in I use my key and…."

"Why didn't you? That's why I gave it to you, so you could unlock the door. Thought that would be common knowledge… to use it to unlock doors," Sherlock slumped into the sofa.

Lestrade didn't respond, but threw John a desperate look.

"So, what's the news?" Sherlock poked when Lestrade didn't speak immediately.

"You want some coffee, Greg?" John stood up and headed to the kitchen, Lestrade followed.

"Yeah, thanks mate," Lestrade stripped off his coat and threw it over a kitchen chair.

They could hear Sherlock grunted demonstratively in protest about being ignored, and Lestrade threw John a mischievous look. The doctor made some more coffee, but enough this time so Sherlock could have some, too.

"Any progress with…?" Lestrade twitched his head in the direction of the living room.

John shook his head when he heard Sherlock getting up.

"Well, he haven't been to a pub for ages, call me if you want to visit the best pub in London for a change tonight," Lestrade offered in a louder voice while taking a seat at the full table.

"Yeah, you're right, has been ages since we went for a beer."

.

Sherlock followed them into the kitchen, he suspected they were talking about him when he couldn't hear it. They showed all the signs, but he wasn't able to get hold of it, yet.

Would they stay in the flat if he bought beer?

He wanted their company. Worth a try, he set a mental metal reminder to go shopping.

.

"What did you find out."

"I thought you'd never ask," Lestrade smiled at Sherlock and handed over a small staple of papers, folded in the middle to fit into his pocket, "There might has been another victim. We're still checking the facts… A young women with unusual marks on her legs in Dublin. And here are the results of Molly's tests," Greg handed over more papers.

"Uh, that's nice of you bringing them in on a Sunday, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's nice of me. Kind you notice," Lestrade informed in a neutral tone, watching Sherlock's face closely.

"It's odd, our killer seems to travel around a lot… Even if this one is not his work," John wondered and poured Lestrade a coffee, than sat down with his mug in his hand.

"Yeah… Ta."

"You want some coffee, too, Sherlock?"

"Yes, please."

John filled another mug.

Sherlock went to the cupboard to get sugar, then shoved the parts of his experiment together, so they only took to a minimum of space on the table. He sat next to Lestrade and started to read the papers.

John was used to being ignored like this, but Lestrade was visibly uneasy, so John started some smalltalk.

In the end they decided to go to Lestrade's favourite pub in the evening. This was when Sherlock seemed to start listening to them again. Lestrade invited him too, but Sherlock refused.

.

Both spend the rest of the day in the flat, each doing their own business.

Sherlock read the new information on the case and the lab results in detail - and except the last one - did it in silence.

John finished some paper work he had brought from the surgery and tried to appreciate Sherlock was still alive and they were doing daily things just like in old times.

The silence felt just like old times.

John watched his former flatmate for long periods when he was sure he was not paying attention to him.

No, not really like old times. Before the Fall Sherlock had had episodes where he didn't speak and phases when he was talking without end enthusiastically, no matter what others wanted to say or to contribute. Well, the latter were amiss now.

Sherlock's posture was no longer as upright and energetic, overflowing with activity as he used to be. The detective's facial expressions, that were often quite exaggerated or out of line in the past, were missing now. His face was a mask most of the time. And his eyes… he looked haunted and tired.

This was a depression, the doctor had sensed it before, but he had been so busy with his own anger and emotions he had not taken it seriously until Lestrade had said it last Tuesday. Greg was right, and the longer he spent in Sherlock's company the clearer it was to him, too. First, Sherlock's feelings were like icebergs and second, he was too good an actor. The tiny bit that was visible meant the main part was unseen, the dangerous, intense and important parts.

Sherlock was hurting with this whole thing, too… a lot. But what was the real reason?

John knew the reason he himself was depressed.

Initially it was because Sherlock was dead and he was missing him, well, this was kind of out of date…. though it still lingered. This was how it had been the last two years, combined with the fact that his PTSD had resurfaced with full force the day Sherlock had jumped of that dammit roof… Stupidly his depression had not yet realised that this fact was not real any longer. Sherlock was back and alive and it was all…

Yeah, what was it?…

Anger…

Grief and desperation had changed into anger, about not being trusted enough to be included in Sherlock's hiatus, and about being left out of the plans… and about how cruel Sherlock had been to do this all to him.

But what was it that made the other man depressed?

Absence of cases couldn't be a reason… He had plenty of case-solving in the past weeks and months as it seemed.

John doubted the consultant would be depressed about things like relationships, at least he had never been in the past.

Was that true?

Maybe not, before the Fall it had happened that Sherlock had been stressed when John was pissed at him, and later in their time as flatmates had even learned to say sorry or to speak about problems in their interactions.

But that was far from… _this_. In the most extreme John had yelled how bad he had behaved and Sherlock would have asked why it was bad and would have stored the information with the tag 'don't do this' and the next day it would have been in the past and back to usual, at least for Sherlock.

Nowadays the detective was more impatient with people he didn't like… but he was more patient with _John_ than ever before.

He also held back or hadn't the impulse for critic or inappropriate behaviour.

He was… not Sherlock somehow.

He didn't boast with how he had taken down Moriarty's net. He had started to at the second restaurant, but John had killed it within the first attempt, had punched him.

Since then Sherlock had not spoken about it, had been closed up about the thing. Well, he had made two or three remarks about how he had felt that were kind of bombs on John, but the doctor doubted they were meant to hurt him. On those occasions it seemed that things were coming to the surface and Sherlock wasn't managing to stop them, or that he wanted to open up a bit but didn't realise the situation was all wrong.

Well, at least this hadn't changed. With this Sherlock was still like a child learning what was socially appropriate.

Sherlock evaded the Moriarty topic radically. But John knew he needed to know about what had happened sooner or later, he had only rejected it during their reunion because it was too much and he was so furious, and besides he was angry because Sherlock seemed to think it was the most important thing he wanted to talk about.

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_A/N:_

_I'd be delighted if you let me know what you think._


	8. Chapter 8 - Sunday evening

**_Lessons in Friendship 8 – Vulnerability_**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_I am not a native speaker and this is unbeta-ed, please try to ignore my grammar mistakes. _

_Many thanks to Oleta who helps me by pointing out mistakes. :)_

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**Chapter 8**

**Sunday evening – Baker Street**

"I'll be back in an hour," Sherlock reached for his coat, it was 19:45.

"Where are you going?"

"Tesco."

"What?" John's reaction could almost be described as comical. He looked as if he didn't believe it.

"Where are you _really_ going?"

"I told you, Tesco."

"You want me to accompany you?"

"That would be a waste of time, I'll buy milk and some chemicals I need for experiments."

No need to tell John he needed medical supplies and wanted to buy beer. He didn't want John to see what he planned to buy, but realised when he saw John's expression that the doctor had become suspicious and that it might be difficult to leave him at home. "I need some things, too," John stood up.

Definitely trying to come along.

"You have a date and I might need longer. I don't want you to be late."

He had in fact waited until now to be able to use this argument. Right now he wondered why he hadn't waited until John was gone? Tesco in Melcombe Street was open until 23:00 on Sundays…

Why hadn't he?… Dumb.

As long as this task was hovering gloomily ahead he found he couldn't concentrate all afternoon, had made him restless and the need to get it over with was urging him to go.

Without paying more attention to John's protest he just left, glad when John didn't follow. He needed to walk a bit more through London again. Needed some familiarity, cataloguing what had changed… savouring what hadn't. Feel the streets, see actual British road signs, hear typical London sounds.

He looked down the streets several times, fearing John might follow him from a distance. But his former flatmate was nowhere to be seen.

Smelling the big city… Walking was much more intense on all his senses than going somewhere with a cab.

Left-hand-traffic, he had missed _that_. It was so confusing when traffic happened like mirrored in some countries. Irritating, dangerous, even sitting in the backseat was arduous.

He needed some harmless painkillers to take the edge off and he was aware that he should take a look at his back, eventually use an antibacterial ointment for the areas that had started to itch and were seeping into his vest.

He also needed to get beer so he could offer John and Lestrade to socialise at 221b in the future, not in a pub.

Pubs were as awful as large stores, though on a different level. Loud, too many twinkling fine structures getting on his nerves, screaming labels on products with red 'new' speech bubbles and advertisement everywhere, one trying to overtop the other with even louder colours and more ugly overlarge fonts.

Pubs were at least not optically this annoying, but the presence of people having fun, being slightly drunken or yelling at a football game on the telly, equally unnerving. Pubs were a lot darker, which was good, but the odour of the clientele present was more likely to be bad, and the possibility to keep an appropriate distance from another being was harder than in a supermarket.

Stores mostly gave him headaches from the detergents and pesticides that were used, the bright lights and the over stimuli, nausea followed if he stayed too long.

All this hadn't been that bad twenty years ago, he remembered. Well, shops had changed a lot, their squandering and ideas of consumption disgusted him. People could not need 751 different breakfast cereals, that were shipped from all over the world, no matter how encumbering that was for environment.

Needing things… there were _so_ few things one needs…. so few, like a single companion/friend… or living in a specific flat…

What to eat was not important, or what was on the telly or if one had all limbs, or… so many things were not important at all.

And now, he had damaged the single and most important thing. John.

John was hurt, by him… too much.

John was angry with him… too much to forgive him. Sherlock could feel his anger lingering in the flat, the anger would never go away again, no matter how much Mrs Hudson would clean, it would stay… John's hurt would stay.

How could he have been so dumb to miss the option that this could happen?

Mycroft had told him it was a bad idea to exclude John from the plan… Sherlock had thought it would all be fine the moment he returned.

…But it wasn't.

What had gone so horribly wrong?

Where had he miscalculated?…. But John had forgiven him…. at least he had said it, but why was he still so angry then? John had stated those were _different_ things but Sherlock could not understand or see the difference… unforgiving and angry looked the same when they were with John.

Sherlock could feel the hurt seeping out of his former flatmate and it caused him to feel 'not good'. It felt like needing to frown all the time, getting a bad pressure in the head and wanting… something… maybe scream or something… No… it just felt like _something_ had build up and needed out, he doubted screaming would help… just pressure, uneasiness. Most likely it was hurt, too. So the damage he had done to John caused himself to hurt because he sensed the other man's hurt whenever they were together… ricochet-chain-reaction.

He probably deserved to be miserable, then.

He reached the store and took a basket.

The store had changed. Things were in different places. He knew why shops did that, but hated it. Such a waste of everyone's time!

He deserved to hurt… Therefore he ignored the shelves with the painkillers and headed for the beverage section.

John had alleged that Sherlock wouldn't have grieved for him if positions were changed and Sherlock thought that John was dead, in a heated moment shortly after his return. The doctor had asked him how he'd feel in that situation and asked if he knew how it felt to miss someone so desperately one stopped to want to go on himself.

Sherlock knew exactly how that felt. All that had kept him alive these past two years was that he knew that this way he was keeping John safe and as soon as his 'job' was done he could safely come back and everything would be good. They'd continue their friendship, solve cases and live with Mrs Hudson… but all that was kind of gone or rotten now.

When the absence of any company - a factor, which he had considered as unimportant - had paralysed him for days, he had realised he needed _John's_ presence… He had killed the thoughts by telling himself that the better he worked the sooner he'd get that company back.

Now he was back, but that paralysing feeling was still there, returned with a vengeance, stabbing him in the back… Because John was rejecting him?

When he thought he'd go mad with the pain of being beaten and from standing up for days on end, he had thought of John and Baker Street to gather the will to not just give up.

And now he was back and it should be all good and back to normal, but nothing was, the world was upside down. He felt alien in his own flat and John was not there… not usually. He had never felt this… alone and deserted. It was something new he had learned during the past years. It still stunned him that is was even possible. He had been alone all his adult life, why was this so hard?

This must be how John had felt after his suicide… he had endured it for two years. He himself deserved to hurt now, John's misery ricocheted. Maybe that would bring balance back to the universe… that it all hit him back, too.

Making the decision to fake his death had strained him more than any other decision before in his life… that should have made him pause and ask himself why, but he believed it was the strain of the case. He had believed it was the most straining thing in his life until he _was_ in fact in hiding.

Whenever he was sure it couldn't get worse, it would do exactly that. No matter how bad things were, they could get _far_ worse… He had expected the whole thing to be difficult, but he hadn't thought it would have such an impact on him… and far worse… on John.

He had retrieved John's PTSD.

Very not good!

He should definitely have seen that coming! So dumb, so mean… He was bad company.

So often he had wondered why John stuck to him, no one else bothered to waste time with him, but now he knew he had no right to even hope John would in the future.

If this was the price for keeping John save - it was surely not what Sherlock had expected - but the main goal was reached.

Had Moriarty meant _that_ with 'burning out his heart'… surely something felt burnt inside him, destroyed and crinkled.

"Mister?"

Someone tapped his arm.

He blinked, disoriented. The bright light hit his eyes and made him wince.

A young man was in front of him, dressed like someone who restocked the shelves.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course. Why?"

"You're standing there on that exact spot for almost fifteen minutes, and you look… not good. Do you need help?"

Scottish accent, seventeen, maybe sixteen and a few months… saves money… to buy… a small moped… He felt… dreadful… and dizzy.

"I'm not in need of assistance."

Not holding onto a shelf was hard work. When he turned away and headed back for the area with medical supplies, he felt himself slightly weaving. He should pay more attention not to get lost in his thoughts while out shopping. He had experienced these 'deep though spells' on several occasions in the past weeks, musing on dark thoughts.

When standing in front of the over the counter medication he refused to buy any and turned away again, headed to the beer-racks.

Several minutes later he felt his thoughts started heading towards sinister grounds again, he shook his head to shake them off.

Force them away!

He bought several bottles of two different brands of beer and when waiting at the conveyer belt he wondered how often John had stood here in the past getting their groceries. John had done so much for the both of them and for their cases… Had taken care of so many things. Now, that he didn't do them any longer and they didn't happen and Mrs Hudson told him John had done that in the past… now he realised how much his flatmate had done in fact. He had thought things had just happened. Normal people sometimes said that you only learn the value of something when it's gone. He was now guilty of that. He _had_ underestimated how good John was for him and how he'd miss him on his hiatus.

During his 'hunt', the feeling of missing had grown into nausea several times, made him want to curl in on himself and never get up again. New uneasy feeling. Now, it was supposed to be over, but things had gotten worse when John rejected him…

This had shaken Sherlock and he was angry with himself for his mind to betray him with this emotional sensations, chemical defect… He wanted it to stop… He couldn't deal with what he couldn't understand.

He had thrown up several times due to 'unknown distress'. In between operations, when the had the opportunity to communicate, Sherlock had urged Mycroft repeatedly to tell him how John was. Mycroft had tried to evade the topic, but had finally told him John was bad, and that he sat on Sherlock's bed, with his gun and the violin for hours, repeatedly.

As soon as they had fled Serbia and Sherlock was back in London, he had insisted to see the footage of John, but his brother had refused to show him.

Finally Sherlock had managed to get a hold on it, sneaked into Mycroft's private quarters, still recovering and out of his mind with sedatives and painkillers. He had… he didn't want to remember that day… Mycroft had caught him in the act - at least after five hours of watching the recordings, but Sherlock had seen enough, everything was a blur after Mycroft had yelled at him for using his top secret laptop.

He vaguely remembered vomiting on the antique carpet and foreign hands touching him before he blacked out.

The second time he was sick with distress was during his first night at Baker Street, after Greg and Mrs Hudson had welcomed him… and John had punched him… He had spend half the night in front of the toilet and asked himself if he had ever felt this miserable in his whole life.

He refused to believe his state of mind made his body sick, was sure it must be a bug.

When he saved John from the fire the close call had made him… agitated. He then wondered if it was psychological, but since he failed totally to point out what exactly was getting to him so much he doubted it.

Finally he assumed it was the whole of the situation that stressed his transport. It had happened mostly after his return. He hadn't eaten a lot after that.

By now was quite sure it must be a psychological thing. Maybe his disgusting imprecise thinking was also a result of a light depressive episode?

"Excuse me, you need to pay," someone dragged him back into his body. The tone was resentful and when Sherlock resurfaced in reality, a large woman stood before him, she looked resentful, she sounded resentful, even venomous. Her pink and yellow jacket made his eyes hurt even more than all the advertisement.

The shop assistant had registered all his items and waited for him to pay with a kind smile, though Sherlock could see she was stressed and had a hard time keeping up the smile.

Lately he was slightly more successful in getting emotional states right, at least those of persons that were not himself. Their feelings were clearer written on their faces, or had he just learned to read them better? Had the world changed or had he gained a new perspective/insight?

He took out the credit card and held it out, the woman took it.

"You need some bags?"

"Eh, bags?"

"To carry your beer home."

"Yes… yes, of course.. please."

She handed him three plastic bags.

He stared at them.

He was supposed to put the stuff inside, wasn't he?

He did, and felt ridiculous for having asked himself the last question.

Was he really this messed up? His excursion into his thoughts were hindering concentration on worldly things.

A few moments later he left the store, three heavy plastic shopping bags in his hands.

It was quite ungraceful to carry them.

He had walked three minutes when he realised he hurt…. his back hurt.

Exhaustion.

Maybe try to sleep tonight… but it was excruciating to try it. Whenever he drifted off to sleep he jerked awake in panic… Panic, dreadful concept.

They had deprived him of sleep in the dungeon and whenever he drifted off they had punished him for that. Sleep deprivation was a common torture method, he knew that. It was effective and wore him down fast… To feel torture and to know about torture was quite a difference. He still didn't dare to fall asleep, anxious what _they_ would do then to wake him.

He had fallen asleep sometimes during the past two weeks, but it was a terrible experience. Sleep had never come easy, but now starting to drift caused… panic?

Yes, it was panic. It felt like in Baskerville, like knowing something bad would happen to John.

Were John's panic attacks like this?

If they _were,_ he had to admit John was by far even stronger than he had conceded him to be. He always knew John was resilient, but to go through this constantly made him realised how bad PTSD must be.

He had also had some mild flashbacks in the past two weeks. Not nice, quite disorienting, unsettling. The sensation was similar to being dragged into a miserable room in the mind palace and having to find the way back to reality while the palace was under artillery bombardment.

The palace had been damaged during his hiatus, especially in Serbia. There were areas still smouldering and smelling of burned wood. He tried to avoid them.

It would take time to kill the last small fires and clear out the rubbish and the empty missile shells sometime, but not now. Some areas seemed to have been even drained of oxygen and were completely impassable, he felt close to passing out when wandering in them. He hoped he wouldn't need them soon. Sometimes some floors shook with the memory of the torturer's actions, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

He slipped into his mind palace far more often than usual and often totally unintentionally, the fact was not new, but the frequency was, before the fall it had seldom happened of it's own. Mild flashbacks were normal after difficult events, they would go away soon.

The pain in his back grew more intense and forced his mind back into his aching transport, which was currently on autopilot and walking back to 221b in the dark. He had only done half the way and it would definitely be better to watch his way now. London at night was still not really the safest place to be. Awareness of safety had changed, too, nothing felt as safe as it had before. Never let your guard down, always watch your back… He had done that in the past, but now it was with more anticipation of bad events lurking in the dark. It was an unsettling sensation.

He went on, the bags getting heavier with every step.

.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he arrived at home and put the bags, as they were, into the fridge. He was tired and his skin was not glad about what he was wearing, so he changed into the most comfortable pyjama he had and laid down on top of his duvet.

But as expected, when he drifted of, the pain of a whip on his back made him gasp and multiplied his agony.

Ignore it, just go to a safe place in the palace.

After he had been woken up six or seven times he was drenched in sweat and nauseous. He decided to abandon the idea of sleep and went to lie on the sofa to watch some telly.

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_A/N:_

_Please review._


	9. Chapter 9 - Sunday evening – Lestrade's

**_Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability_**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 9**

**Sunday evening – Lestrade's favourite pub**

"How are you two doing?"

"Honestly?… I really don't know… He's… different."

"Different as in _bad_ or different as in _changed_?"

"Both… He's hiding something… no, not singular, several things. I wonder if he's sick or something, he _is_ bad, stiff, awfully skinny, nightmares, closed up."

"Uh," Lestrade winced.

"You know anything more than I do?"

"Sorry, mate, Sherlock and I didn't really had time to talk yet. The night he came back the only thing we talked about was the terrorist threat; which was complete news to me. He mentioned he had been away destroying Moriarty's net and that was it… Didn't even mention if he was successful. Maybe you should give Mycroft a visit."

"He'd consider that as betrayal. Not an option."

"Right. What about Molly?"

"Maybe. Did you know she knew he wasn't dead from the beginning?" John took another sip from his beer.

"What? Seriously?!"

"She and Mycroft and several of his homeless network."

"Blimey."

"He's still so distant… I wonder if he has doubts that the Moriarty thing is definitely over."

"I must say I myself still have problems believing Sherlock is not dead, wonder how you are with that topic."

"I… to be honest… I also still don't dare to believe it fully. I'm afraid I'll wake up and it's all been a nice dream. I'm afraid… I'll wake up… and he is still dead."

"He might feel the same."

"Or he might want to be left alone… at least he behaves like that quite often."

"Maybe he doesn't want to interfere with your… future wife; but, no, Sherlock wouldn't be that respectful."

"Or maybe he is kind of jealous?"

Lestrade opened his eyes wide.

"No, no!… In a perfectly neutral way I mean!" John hurried to say, "I think I'm still the only close relationship to another human being he ever had… has."

"Yeah, you are… He wants you back and you have moved on… I see the problem."

"You do?… Gosh, is it that obvious?… I hate to do this to him… but he should've told me he wasn't dead… Maybe I wouldn't have moved on like this then… I would've stayed in the flat for example… but it hurt so much… so damn… much," John's voice broke.

"Still does, obviously," Greg rubbed the other man's upper arm in sympathy.

John lowered his head and breathed deeply a few times.

"God, sorry… I didn't know this is still getting at you so much," Lestrade was bewildered with John's painstaking suppressed emotions.

The former soldier managed to suppress his sorrow and relaxed his face before he raised his head again.

"Has been better before. All stirred up because of his return. Alcohol was probably not the best of ideas… Exaggerating things a bit, I fear."

"You want to go home?" Lestrade offered.

"Not yet, drink up without haste," John tossed down the last of his second beer, Lestrade's second was still half full.

"Just in case you need some space, you're welcome at my flat, there's an extra bedroom."

"Thanks."

"Staying in the flat is still difficult for you."

"I didn't expect it to be _this_ difficult… I stayed during the terrorist case once… but," John hesitated, "…it was different then. Maybe all the stuff needed to sink in… Er, I have a question: he really went on cases with Molly?"

"He did because you… refused?"

"I did?"

"He said you were out of the picture."

"I wasn't exactly showing him I was glad he was back… tried to choke him when he interrupted me making a proposal to Mary. Half an hour later I knocked him out of a chair… and another half hour later I punched him… It bled a lot."

"Uh! So, he interpreted that as refusing him."

"I was not refusing him… I was just so angry."

"He didn't get that."

"You're probably right, but all I tried to make it right… he didn't understand… When I came back the next day to tell him I was sorry I was taken hostage by… whoever, and was put in that bonfire," John paused, "His actions are… He seems kind of lost. Poking in the dark in the hope to do something emotionally right for _me,_ trying to fix this… I don't know how to react… Did he tell you Moriarty threatened to kill me, Mrs Hudson and _you_?… That he faked his death because of the three of us?… At least that much I got out of him. Moriarty had snipers on all of us, waiting for the order."

"What?" Lestrade looked really shocked, "No shit?" he buried his forehead in his left hand. "No, hell, he didn't, tell me I mean. My god…"

They sat silent for several minutes, Lestrade shaking his head in disbelief. He suddenly looked years older and a bit pale about this detail.

"So, why not tell us?"

"Well, that's one reason why I punched him, I guess. Because he didn't tell me what was going on."

"Oh, Christ… Must have been quite a burden he carried there."

John puckered his lips and Greg sensed his distress and changed directions.

"How's Mary with all of this?"

"Quite understanding… to my - _our _\- great luck. She told me she liked him after he had interrupted my proposal. How many woman do you know would take that without throwing a fit? She realised who he was before he had finished his third sentence. I was so shocked, I couldn't breathe and I… god… I…. thought I…" The memory of the events once more stole John's air and he took some deep breaths, "She… she's great, not jealous, understanding… seems she kind of adopted him. Hope it'll stay this way. I wouldn't survive if they hated each other or would start to compete. She understands him… encourages me to restore the friendship. She thinks he is his-version-of-being-deserted by _me_."

Lestrade giggled, "Understands him… well, that's…"

"Yeah, sometimes I wonder if I had a harder time learning how he ticks than she has, she just knows some things. I think you were right the other day, he _is_ depressed."

"We better keep him busy then, and show him we're still fond of him," Greg muttered as if talking about his six year old kid. "I will try to involve him in as much of the investigation work as possible."

"Be prepared to be told to be incompetent frequently, his mood is difficult."

"I am, I guess it's part of our interaction, me to be stupid, I mean."

"Scrap of comfort to know I'm not the only one he calls stupid?" John tried a lame joke.

"Of course, it's his version of… whatever… If he didn't want us around, he wouldn't interact with us."

"Though, now that I think about it, he's surprisingly patient and kind since his return, with me at least."

"He was pretty patient with me, too. I was scratching my head about it internally."

"Oh?" John raised his eyebrows, "God, I wonder if this is what Mycroft feels like…"

"Parenting him?"

Another long pause where both of them hung on to their thoughts.

"Oh, did I tell you I met his parents?" John said after another minute.

"Really? What are they like?"

"Quite normal people, I'd never have guessed if he hadn't said who they were, talking about normal daily things like searching for glasses and going out to the theatre."

"Did you talk to them?"

"No, he threw them out the moment I came back after the bonfire… More like kicked them out, kind of rude, actually."

"Because you arrived?"

"Think so, they were in the middle of some nonsense conversation. I had never seen them before. No picture, no nothing."

"Well… Maybe I'll meet them some day."

"When I marry her I'll invent them to the wedding," John uttered a spontaneous and keen idea.

"What?"

"Of course I would invite the parents of my best friend to my wedding, wouldn't I?"

"Don't know, depends on how big you're planning it. How big is Mary's family?"

"No family. She's an orphan."

"Oh, sorry to hear that," Greg drank the last of his beer, "You want to go home?… eh, to Baker Street I mean?"

"Yeah," John answered.

Greg looked him into the eyes for a moment. John looked exhausted and worried.

"Okay."

They left the pub and said their goodbyes, John took the tube to get back to Baker Street.

.

Sherlock was experimenting when he came home and John decided to go to bed, he was too tired to do anything else. The beer had made him drowsy and he planned to use it and sleep.

"Night, Sherlock," he greeted after coming out of the bathroom.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock answered. John suppressed a giggle, wondering if Sherlock had ever watched 'The Waltons.'

.

At around three o'clock John woke up, he wondered what had waken him, he needed to pee.

When he came down the stairs he heard Sherlock mutter in the living room.

Had his friend experimented the whole time?

Was he talking to him? Had he kept that habit for the past years, talking to him even though John was not there? Had it ever mattered if John was there or not?

Don't go there! John tried to stop his train of sleepy thoughts, the day had been arduous enough.

John went directly into the kitchen and then to the bathroom, without entering the living room.

When he came out again he heard Sherlock moan.

This made him stop in his tracks.

Sherlock would _not_ do that while he as talking, unaware or not. Not in this way.

What was happening?

The chances that Sherlock had not heard him come down the stairs were minute, the sounds of the second and third step were not exactly easy to miss. He had seldom heard Sherlock made similar noises, except when… he was hurt, or half asleep and in real pain.

.

John entered the living room, remembering Sherlock's reaction to being disturbed in his sleep the other morning. Therefore he proceeded with caution this time, taking in the situation first.

Sherlock was on the sofa, sweating, pale, breathing fast… and his jaw was clenched. He was obviously asleep.

Was he having a nightmare? John just stood there for a moment, observing. He had only once or twice seen Sherlock dream before. This was spooky.

Sherlock's breathing sped up.

"No…" he more breathed than spoke the word.

John was a bit lost at what to do.

Wake him carefully? How? Sherlock was obviously not used to someone being present when sleeping, or he associated it with something negative?

Before John had the chance to decide how to proceed Sherlock twitched and moved on the sofa, his hands flailing.

"John, no…" his voice sounded desperate and clear now.

Had that woke him before? Sherlock calling out his name?

He stepped back into the door between the kitchen and the living room. When Sherlock called out for him once more, now in a low voice, he answered.

"I'm here Sherlock. Nothing to worry," he said from the safe distance.

"Hmmnn," Sherlock groaned, "Thissis useless, I won'tell you..."

What was the detective dreaming about? And who was he talking to?

"Sherlock, who are you talking to?… Who's there?" he asked.

But Sherlock didn't hear him, he had not really expected him to do so. Sherlock continued to mumble and somewhere in between John wondered if he had heard Mycroft's name. The agitation in Sherlock's voice rose a few seconds later and John decided he needed to get Sherlock out of it. This was not good.

"Sherlock! Wake up!" John spoke loud and calm while still keeping his distance.

His friend didn't react at first, but then his uncoordinated movements stilled. John hoped that this meant he was at least getting out of the dream.

He put on the kettle and cleared some space on the counter, being as noisy with it as possible, moving cutlery and china around, then returned to the doorframe.

Sherlock was twitching slightly, still in sleep.

He had guessed that the last two years had been hard, Moriarty was clever and brutal and it must have been a lot of brainwork and rough action to try to bring that net down. He wondered if it had been so rough that Sherlock didn't even want to remember it and wasn't telling him therefore. Usually he'd have thought Sherlock would boast about every single glorious detail and every genius thought he had used to bring the network down.

But there was nothing like that since the initial try at the second restaurant, where John had told him he wasn't interested. Sherlock didn't brag any longer at all and he didn't even mention the events. This was not like the Sherlock John knew.

Sherlock winced once more.

"Sherlock, wake up!" John spoke again and loud.

This time Sherlock flinched and five seconds later blinked and scanned the room.

John just stood there and watched him, trying to figure out what was going on.

The consultant needed about thirty seconds until his gaze found John, who had not moved. When their eyes met John could see Sherlock was uneasy with this. John further realised he was well aware he was having bad dreams and he was not at all happy that the doctor had witnessed one… and Sherlock knew what he had just dreamt about.

"What did you dream about?" John stepped into the breach.

"Nothing important."

Interesting, he didn't deny to have dreamt at all.

Sherlock stood up and headed for the kitchen, but found the kettle was already switched on, after a moment of irritation he fetched the teabags, still busy blinking the sleep away, a distraction probably.

John once more observed how stiff his movements were, even clumsy.

"You're okay?"

"I'm fine, please stop this," Sherlock was clearly getting irritated.

John decided to drop it for now, "Make two please."

"Two for you, or one for me and one for you?"

"One for me," John answered, at least this was typically Sherlock, asking the obvious an average person would just do… but Sherlock's communication was too precise for that, at least this was still the same.

Sherlock prepared the tea, but then headed for the living room with his cup in his hands, leaving John's on the counter. The doctor had to go get it, this was clearly not an invitation for further talk, more a leave-me-alone-message.

John took the mug and headed for the dinner-table. He sat down and started reading yesterday's paper, demonstratively ignoring Sherlock. A few years ago showing he wasn't interested had a high chance to make the man talking of his own.

No such luck this time.

Sherlock was busy with his phone for the next half hour, his fingers moving quite slow over the keys, John noticed.

Finally Sherlock turned around on the sofa, his back to John, and stopped moving.

Was he trying to sleep?

John decided this was clearly the sign for him to return to his bedroom and get some more sleep, which he did.

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_A/N:_

_Please let me know what you think._


	10. Chapter 10 - Monday – The flat

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 10 **

**Monday – The flat**

Monday morning John had to work.

When he got up Sherlock was already pondering over the facts and data that were spread all over the floor. The nice thing was John found tea ready and waiting for him.

When the doctor went to get some milk and opened the fridge door he saw three large shopping bags inside. Stuffed in as they were.

He frowned. Sherlock had _really_ been shopping, it had not been an excuse for something else.

He peered inside one of the plastic bags, at least six large bottles of beer, different brands; he stared at them, a bit dumbstruck.

Maybe Sherlock needed them for an experiment?

John rummaged through all bags and found three more bottles of beer and finally: the milk. Sherlock had _not_ forgotten it, that was not a first but hadn't happened often.

John realised that comparing 'back then' with 'now' was probably not the best way to help them both get better.

It just happened, but he'd try to stop that now… except for good things, maybe… like Sherlock remembered his needs!

On his way out he passed the living room, Sherlock's posture was broadcasting frustration and that he was kind of stuck. John assumed it was better not to ask and headed for the underground station.

.

When John came home in the afternoon Sherlock had not changed, nothing hinted he had eaten and he looked as if falling asleep on his feet could not take much longer.

The consultant had been talking to himself when John came up the stairs but stopped abruptly when he heard John.

"Oh, good, I need some explanations concerning human nature."

"Oh, alright," John agreed while getting out of his jacket and putting on the kettle. "What about I make Lasagne for dinner?"

"Not hungry."

"Yes you are."

"I am not!"

"I answer your questions about human nature when you eat dinner with me," John extorted him, more joking than making a real threat, it should have been clear because he grinned at his former flatmate.

"I don't like being blackmailed. I might call Molly and ask her if you…"

"It was kind of a joke, Sherlock. I just wanted you to eat, you look terrible. You need some sustenance… and sleep probably."

"I can't sleep."

"But you can eat, so do me the favour. Lasagne is a lot of work and I don't want to do it for nothing."

"Why don't we order something?"

"You're more in the mood for something else?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Chinese."

"Okay."

Of course, John did the call and while they waited for the food he went to his room and slipped into some more comfortable clothes.

When he came back down Sherlock had lined up the pictures of the victims - that showed how they were found - in a neat row, staring at them.

"What do they all have in common?"

"Are you asking me or just thinking out loud?"

"I already figured out 179 things they have in common, and 311 they don't. Yes, of course I'm asking you," Sherlock was speaking as fast as usual when he was explaining his deductions, John wondered once more how anyone could speak so clearly so fast.

"To repeat the obvious?" John stepped closer to the other man and considered the printouts with him.

"Nope, to have an social, interactive, normal-person's point of view... or a doctor's, preferably all of those, one at a time."

"Okay… Why don't you go have a shower in the meantime?"

"Do I need to?" Sherlock asked neutrally, no whining, no irritation, no anger.

"Yes."

Sherlock smelled unshowered, but there was also a sweet undertone in the scent that made John uneasy, though he couldn't sift it out yet.

"Okay, thanks for the hint… I missed your input the last two years, and my senses missed your presence… It's quite… easing to have it back."

The detective scuffled out of the room. His tone had been flat through the whole interaction, not impatient, not unnerved, just monotone, even his badly put on and exaggerated mimic was not there, had seldom been there the past days.

The last statement was quite a surprise. John gazed after him, that was a compliment, an appreciation of his presence, actually. He was a bit stunned with that emotionless emotional declaration.

Sherlock vanished into the bathroom and two minutes later the shower was turned on. His friend seemed to dislike showering nowadays.

Or did he just forget? Sign of depression, John mused, the last comment was even more nice and caring with this background information.

John stood and stared into space for a minute, Sherlock had actually been kind… again… and had underlined he wanted him here.

While he watched the pictures, he got sidetracked by his hunger and started clearing the table so that they could have dinner.

He transferred the fact sheets to the sofa, in the exact arrangement that they had on the table so he'd be able to put them back later. He knew Sherlock would probably throw a fit, but the kitchen table was still contaminated with Sherlock's latest experiments… and he would definitely not touch those.

After he had switched on the telly to see some news he continued to prepare the table for dinner. When he was finished he texted Mary, asking her how her day was. They texted several times a day and today was no difference. He'd call her before going to bed, as usual.

Some time later Sherlock came out of his room, he was clean shaven and looked as if he had taken extra care to clean. He wore a fresh dressing gown, and fresh pyjamas, and socks… but no shoes. John frowned, it was November and the wooden floor was cold.

For a moment Sherlock stared at the relocated evidence material and John feared he might get a grotty comment for that, but Sherlock just changed his position and continued to stare at it.

"What could possibly be attractive about being vulnerable?"

"Sorry?" John wasn't keeping up.

"What do you think all the victims had in common the moment they died?"

"They looked as if relaxing at home."

"And what are you when you do that?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Relaxing? Trusting nothing would happen to you?"

"This is equivalent to vulnerable," Sherlock stated.

"No it's not."

"What?"

"Actually, I think it's quite the opposite. They trust they are safe, therefore they can relax."

"But relaxing makes one vulnerable," Sherlock stated.

"Not really. To be vulnerable means there's something… threatening or using that state for… uh, the presence of someone taking advantage of the slackened and secure state I guess."

"So relaxing does _not_ make one vulnerable?"

John frowned. This had an odd undertone.

"Sherlock, you're just giving the impression the term is… not… Your definition of it might be faulty at some aspects…" John muttered hesitantly. "… and no, relaxing is not making you vulnerable… I mean, maybe _you_, but not the average person. They relax quite frequently, especially around people they like."

"Then if something is vulnerable or not depends on the intentions and the quality of the people around."

"Yes. Let's try this different. Eh, when Irene injected you with the drug… I presume that would make one feel vulnerable... feeling control slip away… losing control over your body, not being able to escape."

"But I knew she just wanted to get away with the phone…"

"…you must have felt exposed somehow…"

"No, your were there…"

John blinked, was this… holy shit, it was!

"Are you saying you didn't panic because you knew I was there and it made you feel safe?"

"I don't panic!" Sherlock stated, a bit sulky.

John noted he had not objected to the first statement.

"Oh yes, you did in Baskerville… There you might have felt vulnerable… that might be a good comparison."

"I panicked… a bit."

"No, Sherlock, be honest with yourself… by your standards you panicked _a lot_."

"Okay, I panicked a lot… but there – also – you were present and provided a certain degree of…"

John raised his eyebrows and simultaneously stroked his left briefly over his mouth to hide his grin. The other man had really admitted two incredible things in one sentence… even repeated them without even sounding too much uneasy with it.

"So being vulnerable goes together with being afraid?"

"Sometimes."

"But that is the opposite of relaxed," Sherlock stated, "Maybe they thought their ordeal was over and they assumed the assailant had left and therefore relaxed?"

"Like in: he told them he was going to let them life and that he'd just give them one more dose to make sure they'd not alarm the police immeditately?… Possible, but that would be really cruel."

"And heighten their violable state even more…"

"Definitely. I mean making them unable to move is already vicious… and bringing them back home, raising their hopes. Well, they might look peaceful and relaxed, but the amount of…" John wandered over to the table and pulled a sheet from a heap of papers.

"Here… High levels of stress hormones on all victims."

"I know. Why do you think they were brought back home and had not been there the whole time?"

"You deduced that, don't you remember?"

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did, at the crime scene on Friday. You said the male victim arrived home probably 14 hours before his death, but he had been missing for seven days, logical assumption: he was not home the other six and a half days."

"Fourteen hours are not half a day."

John rolled his eyes but his mood changed into worrying fast.

Was Sherlock really not remembering?

"Are you making fun of me?"

The doorbell rang and Sherlock escaped the conversation by volunteering to get the food.

.

They ate, John tried to keep the conversation light but intended to poke a bit further later.

Sherlock actually ate all his dinner and even tried the soup John left because he was full.

They returned to the case without clearing the table.

John summarised, "So, the distance between the first and the second murder were nine days, the same time between victim two and three… looks like a pattern. If he keeps his pattern he already has victim number four in his fangs since Wednesday or Thursday. Lestrade went through all the missing person's files, we saw two of the flat's of those missing persons ourselves and Scotland Yard installed surveillance equipment in three more flats."

"Nothing! This can't be! Why can't I find anything?! There must be something," Sherlock sounded quite angry with himself suddenly. Bitter and self-loathing about failing to come to helpful conclusions.

The past week had been a total failure when it came to solving this case. It was a tenacious struggle for finding anything at all, John had wondered if the detective's bad constitution had anything to do with it or if this was really en extremely complex case, even for a genius mind.

"Sherlock?" John spoke in a calming voice, "The only thing you can do is work on it, there's nothing more you can do."

John was a bit surprised with himself. Two years ago he had yelled at the man, suggesting that he didn't care and now he accepted he seemed distressed?

Well it didn't mean Sherlock cared about the victims, he might be only angry with being unsuccessful.

"I could be less blind for starters!" Sherlock spit, "Someone incarcerated might be hoping for someone to come to their help!"

So much for not caring for the victim. John smiled bitterly, Sherlock cared - in his very own way - and not in a sentimental or overly empathetic way, but he did care, and it was surprisingly close to the surface these days.

"Sherlock, you're tired, exhausted and not well, maybe a good night's sleep and a good meal will do you good. The latter we already did. Go to bed, sleep, and tomorrow we'll give it a new fresh start."

"No!" Sherlock's voice was hard and stubborn.

"Collapsing from exhaustion will do no one any good."

"I am fine!" Sherlock griped.

"The hell you are!" John's tone was hard now, too.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, trotting into the kitchen.

"For what?" John couldn't decide if he was more perplexed with the sudden change to a oddly docile tone or the fact that Sherlock excused for his behaviour.

"You're right I'm tired."

John narrowed his eyes, following the other man.

This was not normal… probably Sherlock tried to agree to a lesser evil to hide a bigger one.

"What's up, what aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock put on the kettle and prepared two mugs for tea.

"I tired, that's all. Now, I said it, so back off," Sherlock escaped into the bathroom and John grumbled about that blunt exit. Sherlock knew the doctor wouldn't follow him in there.

Three minutes later he came back, finished preparing the tea and returned to the living room, where John sat at his laptop reading his mail.

Sherlock handed him a cup.

"So, the original question about human nature should be: Why is the assailant so cruel? What is attracting him? What does he want to feel? Is there an attraction in vulnerability?"

"What?" John asked, not sure where Sherlock was heading.

"Isn't there a version of sexuality that has being vulnerable as the main aspect?"

"Maybe. If I got the concept right, BDSM works _with_ that aspect, but it's also about absolute trust and the chemical and emotional high the human body can produce with the right amount of pain… among tons of other things, loads of psychological stuff, too. But I'm not an expert, my knowledge is superficial… I don't see any connection to this."

"Right, there was not the slightest hint that this is in any way sexual in nature," Sherlock agreed, "At least not in an open or in a carried-out-on-the-victim-way. So the kidnapped persons were mostly afraid to die, not to be assaulted physically."

"How would they know? They were afraid, stressed, desperate and probably even close to loosing their minds with the distress. They didn't _know_ if they were gonna live or would be assaulted… or hurt or whatever."

"Could you do me a favour and try to describe how that feels like?" Sherlock wanted to know.

John hesitated.

Was Sherlock his insensible self or trying to gather special information?

He wasn't sure if he wanted to be angry or to accomplish Sherlock's wish for a description. He turned his gaze away from the evidence and looked up into the other man's eyes… for the first time in minutes. What he saw there caused him quite a headache.

Sherlock was looking to the ground, not a the evidence. His eyes were dark and… absent, leaking some unknown distress.

John was distracted from the request, he stepped closer and reached for Sherlock's upper arm, something that cried for some sort of comfort was written all over his posture. The detective blinked and three seconds after John had made contact he stepped back and freed himself from the gentle grip.

He had needed _three_ bloody seconds for that reaction.

"I don't… Just describe it for me."

"Okay, sorry… Er…. imagine you're restrained and not able to get away and someone is doing things to you don't want and you can't stop him… Can you imagine how that feels? Probably not, you always have a plan B and an escape plan carefully laid out… I felt kind of like that at the pool… with Moriarty… I also felt like that in that bonfire. Not nice… to be at the mercy of someone who doesn't think your life is worth a shit and no chance to get free… Quite scary."

John looked up at Sherlock who had been standing a step next to him, not moving. With a bit of a shock John saw the colour draining from Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock?" John said in a warm voice, stepping closer again, "Hey?"

His former flatmate stared ahead into space, not reacting, not moving, barely breathing.

"Sherlock? Snap out of it."

This was not good. John reached for Sherlock's wrist to feel his pulse, but the moment their skin made contact Sherlock sucked in air in surprise and jerked back, almost tripped over his own feet. John followed the movement and tried to prevent him from falling, but Sherlock caught himself and raised his hands so John wouldn't try to touch him.

They both stood there staring at each other in stunned silence, both upset and taken-aback, unsure of what to do next.

"I'm tired I will go to bed," Sherlock turned to go.

"Sherlock, talk to me," John stepped after him but knew better than to touch him.

"You said I need sleep, I agree, isn't that what you wanted?" Sherlock sounded beaten and in fact on the end of his tether.

John didn't know what to say.

"Okay, good night," Sherlock vanished into his room.

John stared after him.

This could not go on like this! Something was _so_ wrong with all this. John would find out!

He sat down on the table and answered another mail, listening to the sounds from Sherlock's room with one ear.

Was the man really sleeping or pondering on his bed now?

Half an hour later he went upstairs.

He called Mary and he was glad she listened to all the stuff that bothered him.

It took a long time for sleep to find him.

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_A/N:_

_Reviews are a reward for the author, please tell me what you think._


	11. Chapter 11

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_I am not a native speaker and this will get beta-ed some time in the future, but until then please try to ignore my grammar mistakes… or tell me where they are :)_

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**Chapter 11 **

**Monday night – Sherlock's room**

Sherlock stepped into his bedroom and carefully lowered himself on the bed, laying on his side. He felt dreadful. His back hurt and the pain was bad… his head hurt, too - from the leaden tiredness that was disabling his ability to think and act properly. He had tried to sleep in the early afternoon, but once more nightmares had waked him and when he started to feel nauseous he had abandoned the idea to sleep.

He was alone, Mrs Hudson and John not there. Their absence made him uneasy. He realized he wanted to be where John was, make sure he was safe.

Unsettling new routine that one, popped up every other five minutes, asking if John was safe and … and it even asked if Sherlock had done anything not-nice so that the doctor had left because of that. Sherlock tried to kill the process, not understanding what it might be good for but it wasn't impressed by the deletion and returned.

This was his mind, why was it not listening to his orders! He tried to think about the case, aware that someone might be already taken by the serial killer and was about to be murdered.

The thought had haunted him for days now, he could not concentrate, the mind palace was in disorder. He searched for information and tried to sort through those they had gathered, but quite frequently he stumbled into some kind of disarray that distracted him…. or messed up his memories of his observations. It was like something had broken in…. or like a Trojan had brought chaos and disorder in, a little monster from a child's story that messed up the rooms when none was looking. The moment that comparison materialized in his mind he wondered if he honestly was going kind of nuts.… maybe he was, a few minutes ago …. That was kind of a panic attack when John described what would make one feel vulnerable. As if John knew how things had been in Serbia… he had described all aspects. Had he spoken to Mycroft? Did John know?

A dark green spark of pain pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind with cruel intensity. John would make him swallow painkillers with this level of pain…. Or John would cause some more pain by punching him again…. he indeed deserved the pain…. But for now it was getting a bit to much and he granted himself to try to dim his pain perception for a bit.

He was tired.. he wanted to sleep….. but the victim might die if he took his time to sleep, it was not nice to sleep therefore, wasn't it? John would know, he always knew what was nice and what was not. But did he deserve that John taught him such things. He knew he had damaged their friendship…. another setback…. he had caused it… by denial, by ignoring important facts. He had denied that John would get hurt severely by this, refused to believe this might cause another PTSD episode, hadn't considered how much grief would harm his friend…. and he even had to admit it had damaged himself more than anything ever had in his life…. He felt … wounded…. different… harmed…. by himself, by Moriarty, by his inability to bury the memories of the torture… was this feeling vulnerable?…. Had he stumbled into this new ugly thing? Had it been here before John had described it or was knowing about it causing it?

He _had_ a panic attack, he knew the feeling since Baskerville, and it had felt a lot like back there. John had noted something was going on, but at least not that he had suffered an episode of intensive anxiety.

Okay, how to deal best with it…. put it in the freezer. Go to the Mindpalace and try to store it away securely. There were three fridges and freezers in the Mindpalace and he opted for the one in the cellar. He tried to pack a mental bundle and wrap the memory of the dungeon and the panic from a few minutes ago tightly into it. The freezer door felt slimy and disgusting, though he could not see any contamination on it. When he opened the door something feel out.

He realized it was his violin bow, it had been shot…. It was broken, some hairs stood to all directions. He remembered he had hit it in here after seeing the footage of John on his bed with his violin and John's gun.

The broken bow was the reminder of how much he had damaged John's trust and health and …. friendship…. It served him right that his violin was now crippled without the bow… he didn't deserve the comfort of the instrument or playing it…. it now was a reminder of his failure and misjudgment. _He_ had shot the thing with John's virtual weapon…. some time during his first night back at Baker Street after the restaurant-events…. frustrated, in pain, and in the early hours of a horrible sleepless night. He felt like he had ruined everything good he ever had in his life… he feared for the friendship and felt himself start trembling when reaching for the bow to pick it up with two fingers as if it was smudged… it was, he realized, with his guilt.

He deserved to be punished for what had happened and that he had been to stupid to foresee it and to slow to prevent it. He was a bad choice for a friend. Had he done John any good by coming back or was he better off without him? He put the bow back into the freezer, and tried to store away his shame and whatever else was feeling so bad in there, too. The new sentiment called vulnerability should not be allowed to get out of there ever again. He closed the door and secured it with a padlock.

When he resurfaced to reality his back hurt even more. He tried to withdrew from reality and get into sleep.…. create an emotionless bubble. He was stunned by too much sentiment, once again…. when he felt sleep creep over the edge of his consciousness he didn't fight it.

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_A/N:_

_Please tell me what you think._


	12. Chapter 12

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 12 **

**Tuesday – Car Ride**

Tuesday morning Lestrade informed them that they could go see a dead woman that someone - who was not clear - was suspecting to be another victim of the killer they were looking for. So they went over to Barts and looked at the young woman with Molly and the DI. Sherlock an Molly doubted this was another victim, there were too many differences. To be sure though they inspected her flat, which was over an hour away, and there it finally became even more clear the victim had probably just committed suicide, too many differences to the other crime scenes.

After an hour Lestrade greeted them goodbye and headed back to the squad car, promising the duo he would text if there were any news.

Sherlock and John headed back towards John's car and Sherlock tried to enter in the back.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? Sit in the front." John ordered, while slipping out of his jacket.

"Sorry, force of habit."

John did not really believe it, Sherlock looked as if he wanted to be left alone.

"And put the coat in the back I want to use the heating."

Sherlock hesitated, then sat inside with his coat still on, ignoring John.

John pulled back into the city traffic a few seconds later.

After a few minutes, when he wanted to do a right turn, his view was obstructed by the stiff upright sitting detective next to him. He had already observed how stiff Sherlock was so many times in the past days he lost count, but now it was even more present.

"Sherlock, relax. My driving is not that bad, isn't it?" He tried to provoke a reaction.

"What?" Sherlock obviously had not understood.

"I can't see."

John stopped at a red light, reached over and gently pushed Sherlock back into the seat.

Sherlock had looked the other direction and was to perplexed to react in time to prevent the movement. John saw him clenched his teeth with pain and an almost silent hiss escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

John drew his hand back in mild surprise, staring at him. The facts finally falling into place Sherlock had obviously tried to hide with so much effort.

John had the proof that Sherlock was in a lot of pain and this was the moment when he realized the main source of pain must be his back. He had noted Sherlock was not fully fit when he came back, but now somehow was worse than before. He decided now was finally the right moment to address it. Sherlock could not run off into his room or hide somewhere else right now, as he had before.

"Where are you hurt?" John's voice was low and he tried so sound kind, though he felt anger about the fact that Sherlock had not told him.

"I'm fine." Sherlock tried.

"No, you are not. Don't insult my medical skills. I'm a bloody doctor! You move like a seventy-year old, you have headaches, a low blood pressure, and your skin is more dry than I've ever seen." John took Sherlock's hand and raised it for him to see. It was even colder than he had expected.

Sherlock said nothing. He didn't deny it, he just said nothing. He looked weary and like a scolded child. John frowned. He had expected him to contradict him, be insulted or whatever. But Sherlock just said nothing, John stared at him. The detective looked older than he remembered him from before the fall. His skin was not any longer as wrinkle-free as it had been. Sherlock had aged more than two years in the past two years… he knew it was the same with himself… it had been a hard time, on both of them. Sherlock looked worn out… even more than he had last week.

Cars behind them started to blow their horns and John realized the light had turned to green. He went on.

.

Damn… John would not oversee _this_ sign of obvious pain…. Think! …. But he failed to come up with a obfuscation, he was too tired and … indeed Sherlock's thoughts were in disorder. He felt caught. He didn't want John to see his back… How could he evade that? He failed to come up with a solution.

He had put so much effort into hiding it and as long as he was taking the painkillers and the antibiotics it had been easy to turn down the pain reception to a comfortable level, but in the past days it had come to hit him full force, a constant reminder of the events in the dungeon. No…. Dungeon: store away information into mind palace's cellar, again. How had they come out of cellar…. and the freezer? He had labeled the only door with an 'enter with caution'-sign….

Mental note: check freezer for signs of been opened from the outside… This was ridiculous! None was here except him, so either he had let them out or they had gotten out themselves…. He knew he had tried to store them away several times now, but the wicked thoughts and the cellar door had developed a life of their own. Wait, John's mental manifestation should be here…. it was usually just a voice, never a corporal image of him… it was always present, talking freely. Other people had a physical appearance in here sometimes, especially Mycroft, but John hadn't. Why not? Sherlock wondered for the first time. Probably John was too much an element of him to have an own body? His presence was so much woven into Sherlock's existence he didn't need a physical image, John was part of the structure itself, always there, not possible to be shut out from anything, Sherlock needed no privacy from John, the doctor was granted access everywhere… and Sherlock was sure he would not let anything free intentionally….

He had been confronted with the memory's door accidentally while being busy with something else. Now he finally noted it seemed to move freely within the mind palace… reappearing unexpectedly, the door's label gone, which caused him to enter by accident before but now the door even opened when he passed and the content poured into the corridor transferring it to the room itself, he tried marking the corridor but chances were high this would not help either. This was all before he had put them in the freezer. Now he was kind of lost about what else to try. He could try to put it all in a vault…. Bank-sized one, but he needed to built it before… and not in a way that would prevent anything to get in, but out… maybe better to try a prison than a vault? High security thing?

This was finally the moment where he had to avow himself that there might be a problem…. and it was not the _only_ problem. John would not leave this alone. Protect John from agony meant: don't tell him anything related to Serbia…. but John would act hurt if he didn't tell him, so this problem ended up chasing it's own tail. He didn't like those kinds of problems. Solutions that caused the problem itself were unacceptable. He had run into a dead end with his social interaction once more. Whatever he'd do it would be wrong, this had happened a lot lately and it was disturbing. Was he just out of practice or had he just not seen this kind of problems before? No, he had, he had just not considered them important and ignored them. But things were different now, there was John and with John ignoring bad solutions was … bad.

His only point of reference he would have asked in the past: John … Uh, this had even two tails to chase…. Kind of three dimensional rounding in circles. His mind came to a full stop when white pain flashed behind his brows in slow motion. He jerked back to reality.

.

John drove through the city in silence. Sherlock appeared a bit frozen or deep in thoughts or stubbornly refusing to speak to evade any themes he didn't want to talk about. After fifteen minutes Sherlock blinked several times, kind of resurfacing from wherever he had escaped to… and he decided to approach the theme now and here and different than before.

"You remember when you sneaked out of the house to join a mad murder cab driver and almost got killed?

Sherlock needed some time to register the question.

"Yes… you saved me." He finally answered.

"You remember when you left me out at a front door and were almost strangled to death?"

"Yes. But if he had wanted to kill me he would have done it. It was a warning."

"Not the point."

"What is the point?"

"You remember when you invited Moriarty to meet you at the pool?"

"Of course I do."

"I ended up as a bomb carrier and we got into a really nasty situation. Wasn't much fun, even with your standards."

"No, it wasn't."

"You remember when you told me that alone is what you have and that it protects you?"

"Yes…." Sherlock hesitated, probably getting where John was heading with his questions, had taken quite some time.

"I ended up watching you committing suicide…. Was no fun, too…."

"I already got that." Sherlock's stubbornness seemed to rise but he successfully killed it before it reached the surface too obviously.

"Whenever you left me out of the loop or pushed me away one of us got hurt. You were to self-reliant to accept my help or my company and it all went straight to hell." John gently explained.

"I…"

"In fact there is not a single incident I remember where you shut me out and it worked to a satisfactory outcome. Kind of learning-resistant with this, aren't you?…."

Sherlock did not say anything in a know-it-all-manner to that.

"So could you stop that this time _before_ someone gets hurt?… Besides that you obviously are already hurt I want no further avoidable injuries due to your lack of accepting help."

"I was only trying to …" Sherlock grunted out, evident in his voice that he felt misunderstood.

"Yeah, what, Sherlock?"

"…. to protect you….."

"Yeah, and every time this is what made the shit hit the fan in the end." John was angry but tried not to show it.

"I…"

"For us to solve cases together again I need to know that you trust me, Sherlock. So let me in."

"Fine." Sherlock hissed, he seemed to surrender to the fact that his path of action was faulty. "I …. hurt the skin on my back and it needed some stitches." He then muttered, sounding embarrassed.

"When?"

"Four days before I choose to be so dumb to play the role of a garçon."

"Is that a curious way to say sorry for that poorly considered action?"

"Guess so." Sherlock looked down into his lab, the consonants spoken sharp, almost hissed. John could feel Sherlock's shame and resentment almost physically. He was in fact a picture of misery. Was it really because he was depressed with how this had turned out between them?… Was it possible this was the main problem?… John understood that it was important, but there was something else…

"What is it Sherlock you are not telling me?"

"John, I can't… not now…. not this very moment,…. I mean…". Sherlock's voice was carrying some distress.

John looked at his friend. Sherlock was pale, cold, in pain and…. ? A bit poking was needed.

"You don't want to talk about it because you want to protect me?"

"Hm…. No.. maybe."

"Because it is a secret?"

"No. Not between us…. Maybe for the rest of the world… not Mycroft, though."

This made John relax…. but the reasons that were left were not good and he felt himself tense up again.

"You don't want to say it because you are afraid I will react badly."

"I am not afraid."

"So you know I will react badly?"

"Stop this."

Bingo.

"You don't want to talk about it because it's too hard?" John had never ever thought he would ask Sherlock such a question, it was almost absurd.

Sherlock remained silent.

Bingo, dammit!

There were two minutes of silence and John pretended to concentrate to get on the right street.

"Okay. Move the seat back so I can see out of the window, the handle is on the right."

Sherlock stiffly moved forward and pushed the seat back.

"Good. Did you take any meds for that and when?"

"Course of antibiotics, ended last Monday." Sherlock said in a low voice.

So the wound had been infected or in danger of getting infected, the doctor diagnosed silently.

"Painkillers?"

"Last one: last weekend I think."

"Which ones?"

"Prescription, non opioid."

So the injury was not just a superficial cut then, John concluded.

"Who did…?"

"Mycroft's physician."

John relaxed a bit, he had feared Sherlock had got the meds on his own.

"Okay, in the glove compartment is Ibuprofen, take one."

Sherlock hesitated.

"Come on, you are in pain. We will be on the road for at least another half hour, no need to hurt more than you already do." John did not ask why Sherlock had not said it before.

Sherlock downed one of the large pills dry.

"Reach behind your seat, there is a bottle of water."

"No, thanks."

"Sherlock, your stomach is probably not in the best of moods, either. You don't want a gastritis, so drink the water." John ordered.

"My stomach is fine." Sherlock ignored the order.

"So, what do you think about the victim's flat that you didn't say out loud back there?" John asked to escape the awkward moment, he was assuming Sherlock had held back some thoughts at the scene and he decided to end the theme for now would be beneficial for later.

Sherlock went through every detail of the things they had seen and he had deduced before but there was nothing John would label another discovery, especially since they determined it wasn't the work of 'their' killer.

John found himself just listening to Sherlock's deep voice and the joy of being given the gift to hear such a boring and amazing monologue again. He smiled and knew Sherlock had missed it to go one crime scenes, too, if what Lestrade had said was right.

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A/N:

_Please review!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

.

_Thanks to all the kind souls who write reviews and tell me what they think! :) …You're great._

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**Chapter 13 **

**Tuesday – Back at 221b**

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked when they made another turn, only a few minutes from home.

John looked at him, Sherlock suggesting eating for the second time within days without him complaining before was odd. Was Sherlock trying to prolong their arrival to the flat?

When they were in the Chinese restaurant and Sherlock offered to buy some wine John was sure Sherlock tried everything to evade what he knew was coming. John looked at him with narrowed eyes, which made Sherlock look away in surrender. Confirmed prolonging then.

.

"Okay, strip." John ordered as soon as they had entered the flat.

"Is Mary aware..." Sherlock started.

"Yes, she is aware that doctors order their patients to get naked sometimes." John interrupted the dumb try to evade the inevitable.

"The food is getting cold." Sherlock tried, unenthusiastically. But eating would be at least less inconvenient than getting his shirt off, for both of them. Besides, he was much to cold to get undressed.

"Then you better hurry." John suggested. He would not back off, Sherlock knew that tone.

"John.. I really don't think this is a good idea."

"Why not?"

"I would prefer not to have another stressful …. event, tonight."

"You tried to hide it from me, it is you that caused stress that way. Be honest with me and we won't have stress."

"I ..." Sherlock seemed desperate.

"Dammit! Get that shirt off!" John's voice was getting loud and Sherlock flinched with the anger in the air.

Sherlock turned around, making two steps towards his room. Flight, only option.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "If you push me away and hide now I will go home…. and I will _not_ come back. So you better don't do another step…. and get that bloody shirt off!"

That made Sherlock stop dead in his tracks. He stood there, feeling something …. strong. No… bad moment for that… he knew that feeling… panic, not good. How John sounded right now… absolutely no doubt John would leave. It made his chest feel tight and the air viscous. Sherlock noted that the pure idea to tell John about anything that surrounded the events in Serbia right now made him feel out of air and … was this how distress felt?

.

John was unbelievable relieved when Sherlock stopped. It softened his anger how fast Sherlock had done so in fact. They both stood there, unmoving, John three steps behind Sherlock, next to the armchairs, Sherlock half in the kitchen. John realized Sherlock was really frozen, was he breathing? He decided to move, Sherlock had done the first step by stopping, he could do the next, besides getting in his way might be good in case he decided to go ahead.

John rounded Sherlock and stood before him, Sherlock's eyes were wide and he was in fact holding his breath unconsciously.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't move, not even blinked.

"Sherlock? Breathe!" John ordered.

Sherlock had paled and the doctor wondered if he was about to pass out. What was going on here? What could be so embarrassing Sherlock tried to hide it? ... throw the man that acted like a machine more often than like a human being into so much distress? He was afraid! Sherlock was afraid. Oh god, what could be so bad to make him so anxious? Something terminal and deadly?

"Sherlock….." John raised his hands and gently took Sherlock's shoulders. "Breathe…. Come on…." He felt the disquiet take over. Sherlock exhaled in a stuttering way and when he inhaled John felt him start trembling.

.

Sherlock realized he had to do this, he had to stop fighting John…. Entrust him with this. He had John trusted with issues of his health before… maybe he should just see it as this, shut out all the other stuff… he doubted it would work…

Maybe he would manage, but John would not, he would get emotional over this… Sherlock knew John would take this badly, he had tried to evade this as long as possible, heal as much as possible before letting John see it. But the doctor had become suspicious and watched him even closer and he had known for days it was only a matter of time before the remains of the torture would be discovered.

John would get hurt with this…. and Sherlock would feel John's hurt and then hurt from his hurt… another tail-circle. Who had opened that box he hadn't even been aware existed for so long? This came with friendship, love… caring. Caring hurts, he already knew that much. He had decided he wanted to care for John…. He would get through with this.

.

Sherlock stood before him, looking to the floor. John could see he was not really present, his thoughts were chasing something and he didn't like the distress those thoughts did to Sherlock's body. Then something changed, Sherlock looked up, into John's eyes, just for a short moment, and the haunted expression in his eyes made him let go Sherlock's shoulders and step back. Sherlock's gaze went distant and although he was staring ahead roughly to where John's face was John knew Sherlock's didn't see him. The detective slowly got rid of his coat and his suit jacket.

.

Sherlock had seen the anger in John's eyes and he knew there would be much more anger and yelling soon, he tried to block out his desperation for now in order to get through this without any sensations overwhelming him. His hands opened the first button of the shirt, he hesitated. Something had changed in John's emotional emissions. The doctor's anger was completely replaced with ….. fear? or …. not good. It fueled Sherlock's panic once more. Sherlock looked to the floor while slowly unbuttoning the rest of the shirt. It fell to his thighs.

.

Sherlock stood there, his upper half naked now, and didn't move. His breathing was so shallow John wondered if he got enough oxygen. Sherlock had paled and was clearly in some plight he himself probably didn't understand.

The detective's chest showed some fading red lines across it, but they were faint and superficial.

John realized that he would have to get around Sherlock himself when Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting.

He did.

.

John rounded his naked torso and Sherlock closed his eyes, clearly fighting the emotions.

John gasped and Sherlock clenched his teeth. He just stood there... waiting what John would do... time stretched into what felt like minutes. He was afraid to turn around, afraid of what John would say... of how he would react. … stressed by the thought John would leave after all.

He waited... the last thing he expected was the strangled noise John made.

He turned around and John had his hand pressed over his mouth and tears in his eyes. After a few seconds he looked up into Sherlock's eyes and the hurt Sherlock saw made him struggle.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock muttered, feeling sick.

He had tried to say sorry for several things before… but this, he feared it had not been explicit enough how bad he felt with this all in hindsight, so he inserted the information again.

This changed something. John's breath hitched and he closed his eyes for a moment.

.

John rounded Sherlock and there they were... horrible bright red and brown marks... all over Sherlock's back... John held his breath when he realized these were marks of torture. Blue and yellow bruises covered the most of Sherlock's back… recent torture. He had seen things like those before... There were superficial cuts, to much to count, covered by deeper ones on the upper torso and really deep ones that criss-crossed around the shoulder blades, the soft flesh around T12 and L1 in the small of his back. The gashes went down into the trouser waistband.

Two long gashes had been stitched with about sixteen to twenty stitches each... The one on the right was bleeding and saniopurulent oozing where several stitches were torn and on several spots the angry red of infection mingled with dried liquids.

The shock about this took John's breath away. He had thought it would be bad, but this was …. unexpected…. bad….. He clutched his hand over his mouth when he felt a sob raise in his chest. God... no!

When Sherlock turned around slowly and John saw that the one thing on his face was in fact shame ... for what? For being tortured? How could anyone be embarrassed about that? What was is Sherlock was afraid of now?

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock's words made a dam break and John had a hard time to get his breathing under control but finally he managed.

"What for, Sherlock?... You didn't do this, yourself, didn't you?" John managed between the fingers of his left hand, then let it sink to his side.

"Of course not." Sherlock whispered. "I am sorry you have to see this."

"Why?" John gasped.

"Because I failed to prevent it."

"Oh, god, Sherlock! You were tortured! I..." John felt his voice break... and the realization what that meant hit him fully a moment later. Sherlock had endured this to bring down Moriarty's web... in other words to save _him_...

And John had attacked him when Sherlock was badly hurt already… so hard it had knocked them both to the ground… Sherlock had landed on his back in that bloody restaurant and him on top of his friend, with his full weight, trying to strangle him!

He himself was probably the one who was responsible Sherlock's back was even worse and the stitches torn... and he had hit him a short time later ... and even a seconds time. God! John felt he would not be able to keep his tears inside any longer... and other things...

"Don't move... just stay here." He gasped and then ran to the bathroom, closed the door firmly and barely made it to the toilet before his stomach expelled everything in it. John tried to keep the noises down but it was no use at all.

Oh god! How could he have been so blind! So dumb! So angry, to beat a beaten man even further. The thoughts fuelled the nausea and it took quite some time until the retching faded.

His face was wet with tears when he wiped his mouth and stood up shakily. The knowledge that he had added to his best friend's hurt made it so much worse.

He pressed a towel to his face so Sherlock could not hear him.

So Sherlock had in fact tried to protect him from the very hurt he was feeling right now. Protecting him my ass! He was angry with himself and angry with Sherlock and angry with Moriarty and even more angry with his own anger... Sherlock had been through hell in the past two years, too, why hadn't he realized that? He had…. but he had not granted Sherlock that he hurt, too. The thought made him wretch once more and yellow bile hit the porcelain bowl. At least Sherlock was not terminal ill he thought with sarcasm, remembering his earlier anxiety.

Sherlock needed medical attention, this was the least he could do. He needed to get over this and help him! John wiped his mouth once more and then rinsed it with water.

When he stumbled back to the living room Sherlock had indeed not moved. In fact he stood there as if in frozen in shock.

"Sherlock?" John stammered.

No reaction.

"Sherlock? ... answer me...!" John begged. "Come on, we need to get that cleaned up!"

John rounded Sherlock and when he saw his eyes he fought tears again. Sherlock was staring into the distance, his eyes red but dry. He looked so ... lost.

"Sherlock?" John gently reached for his arm and after a moment of hesitation he wrapped his fingers gently around it, when his eyes fell onto Sherlock's wrists he clenched his jaw. There were marks of metal restrains and having fought the those desperately…. or they had held his weight for quite some time?

John realized he hurt… with the emotionless figure in front of him that was showing so much emotion piled in his own unique way that John wondered how he even was able to stand upright ... and what else had to happen to make these walls finally crumble?

"Sherlock? Come on, sit down, we need to take care of this." John gently stirred Sherlock to the nearest chair, who followed without resistance. John pressed him down sideways "Sit."

Sherlock sat and blinked several times, like fighting his way back to reality… and fighting his distress. John had seen this before, when Sherlock had spend time in his mind palace and then needed a moment to adjust to the switch over to real life.

"On a scale from one to ten how much does it hurt?"

"I don't know." Sherlock breathed.

John checked his watch. He could give him another dose of Ibuprofen soon. He fetched the first aid bag and started to work.

He carefully inspected the wounds and while doing so realized it was not a good working position and he needed more light.

"Sherlock, I need you to lie on your stomach… in your bed." He added before Sherlock could even try to think about the sofa.

"What for?"

"So I can do this without kneeling and you can relax."

Sherlock blew his breath out in a way that clearly showed he didn't think this was necessary.

"Come on."

John tugged at his elbow, one of the few places without any strains.

…

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_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. Please write some feedback._


	14. Chapter 14

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_I've been really miserable the past weeks and I want to say 'thank you' all for reading and favour-iting this story and _especially_ to the kind people who take the time to write reviews. I am really grateful for your feedback! Thank you so much for your kindness :)_

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**Chapter 14**

** Tuesday evening – Tortured**

Sherlock stood up slowly and shuffled towards his bedroom. John looked after him with even more horror. He again noted he looked so … battered … and lost. Something he had never thought possible to see on this man. He fetched the medical stuff and hurried after him.

Sherlock had lain down on the bed and his face was turned away from the doctor.

John put the standard lamp into a position to light his working area and sat on the bed.

"Tell me if you need me to pause." John said softly.

He sterilized the whole area as good as possible. Sherlock didn't make a sound when the burning liquid touched his skin…. but a few minutes into the cleaning John felt him his trembling get worse.

He needed to close the torn stitches again, he knew… The wounds had not been taken care of - he'd say for about eight to ten days - probably since Mycroft's physician had stitched him up. John cursed. Sherlock was not even remotely taking care of himself!

"Sherlock when were those stitches to be removed?"

"Tomorrow." Sherlock mumbled.

"And when exactly were you….tor-… eh tortured?"

"Last time they beat me…. three or four days before the restaurant…."

"Three or four?"

"I don't know…" Sherlock voice was a whisper.

"Why not?" John probed, desperately hoping to get some more insight.

"It's…. a bit of a blur."

"Why?"

"The journey back was kind of confusing…. and later Mycroft's … physician knocked me out….."

"Journey from where?"

"Serbia?"

"This happened in Serbia?"

"Yes."

"So you came back and went to Mycroft?"

"No… He came in and got me out…. watched them beat me into a pulp before doing so."

"What?" John yelled and Sherlock winced.

"Well, he needed his cover to be convincing, at least that was _his _argument."

"I will punch him for that!"

"You punch people a lot lately, don't you? … Although Mycroft might deserves it for this… and I probably did, too."

John huffed in disapproval. "Is that why you let me hurt you even more, because you think you deserved it? Is that why you didn't defend yourself?"

Sherlock didn't reply but the doctor could feel him tensing up.

"… and why you let this fester instead of taking care of it?… It's inflamed where the stitches were torn. You know what that means… this would have gotten life threatening soon if not taken care of."

Sherlock's shivering was not getting any better, quite the opposite in fact.

"The stitches were torn when I threw you to the floor in the restaurant, weren't they?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John took that as confirmation.

"God, Sherlock…. " he had to fight hard again to keep his emotions in check. "How long were you held captive? When did they first hit you?"

Sherlock stayed silent, he had not moved the tiniest bit since John had started treating him.

"Sherlock, please tell me. You know it hurts me more to be kept in the dark than been confronted with the truth, please."

"Hm…. Five ….or so days … before I was pulled out by Mycroft.. I lost count, then, too."

"What did they do except beating you?"

"Chained me to the ceiling….." Sherlock whispered in distress. "Prevented me from going to sleep and … it was a cellar. No way to know if it was day or night."

So Sherlock had been tortured for several _days_ actually.

John closed his eyes and bit his lips to contain his emotions and calm his stomach. Concentrating on the matter at hand was what Sherlock needed right now, not being confronted with John's emotions.

"Some of the stitches are torn and got infected. I need to clean them up … and then close them again." John gently informed, inspecting the wounds carefully. This was nothing life-threatening yet, but surely causing a lot of pain. The wounds should have healed better by now.

"Okay." Sherlock mumbled.

"I will administer a local for that, relax."

Sherlock didn't react when John wiped the area again and then administered the local, piercing the skin at several points to make the area numb thoroughly.

While he waited for the stuff to take effect fully he inspected Sherlock's 'good' skin, it was dry, scaly and rough, even cracked at some points. Sherlock was malnourished and the lack of vitamins and certain minerals was visible even on the outside, the prolonged healing was caused by the shortcoming, too.

Sherlock was cold and when John wanted to check his BP the prone man simply refused to move so he could do it. John gave it up, no use, he already knew it was low.

The doctor went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and searched for some fizzy-tablets with vitamins or something he knew he had seen there before….well, _that_ was two years ago…. but he found them, they were past their date but looked okay. He also found the prescription meds in the fridge, the ones he had before thought were for one of Sherlock's experiments.

He found some heavy duty painkillers, too, anti-inflammatory. That would be okay, but Sherlock needed to wait for another hour until the ibuprofen was out of his system enough to take those.

John returned to Sherlock's bedside, the detective hadn't moved and was still shivering. John turned up the heating and rested his hand against Sherlock's lesser damaged shoulder for a moment, lost for words and just wanting to signal his presence as a friend.

"Sherlock, you are exhausted, when have you last slept?"

"While 'go." Sherlock mumbled into the cushion.

"So days then, you're having nightmares of the torture… Are there other memories that also haunt you?"

Sherlock stayed silent.

"Sherlock, talk to me, please."

"Can we …." Sherlock's voice was so hoarse he needed to stop to clear his throat. "Can we do this later…. Please."

John hesitated, wondering if Sherlock was trying to evade it but then realized that Sherlock must feel like shit and decided to leave it like this for now… there was just one more thing he really needed to know.

"Sherlock, let me see how far down the stains go…. please…."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "They stop about seven centimeters below the waistline, in the middle of the sacrum, no need for treatment there."

"I need to see. You need to get rid of the pants for sleeping anyway."

John could hear Sherlock roll his eyes but he rolled over a bit to his side and opened the waistband.

"Cold…" The detective mumbled.

John fetched a blanket that was draped over a chair nearby while Sherlock worked his pants out of the way, but left on the boxers.

John turned on the heating to the maximum. Before the moment could get awkward Sherlock was back flat on the bed and John had covered Sherlock's lower body with the blanket. He held the tube of fizzy tablets over Sherlock's shoulder for him to see.

"Did you use those for experiments or are they fit to drink?"

"Fit." Sherlock mumbled and John dropped a tablet into the glass of water.

He started inspecting Sherlock's back once more.

The sacral area looked not better than the rest of Sherlock's back and John tugged down the boxers a bit more to get a better look. He frowned, a new far more horrible question springing into his mind. Had Sherlock been assaulted in other ways than being beaten? There were cuts on the upper half of the buttocks … but he didn't want to undress Sherlock any more for the moment. He stood up and rounded the bed to look into Sherlock's face for the next question.

"Sherlock, open your eyes, mate."

The detective did, slowly. His eyes were glazed over with pain when he looked up at John. The doctor knelt down next to the bed so they were at the same height. John pushed back Sherlock's hair so get a better view of Sherlock's face without touching the skin.

"Did they assault you sexually?"

Sherlock blinked slowly.

"Sherlock, answer me….."

"No." Sherlock murmured, looking into John's eyes with an indulgent look, then closing his eyes again. John was sure he was telling the truth and felt the relief about that fact made his legs wobbly.

A few moments later John had returned to the other side of the bed and had sat down without any more words and went to work. He cleaned the wounds, inspected the torn skin and made new knots with fresh sterile threat.

Half an hour later he was done and bandaged the area. He gently applied some antibacterial ointment over the rest of Sherlock's back. The man was still trembling but the movement of John's hands finally made him relax a bit. John felt some of the tenderness leave Sherlock and prolonged the gentle contact a bit, but just in a medically over-accurate way, no more.

"Sherlock, you need some rest." John ended the treatment session, tying not to disturb the relaxation.

"Hm, what for?"

"Make a deduction, detective."

"Consulting…. "

"Yeah, yeah, I know, shut up. I will get some painkillers, then you need to sleep."

John went into the kitchen and read the patient information leaflet from the painkiller while returning with the pills. He rounded the bed again and tipped Sherlock's shoulder.

"Here, take them."

Sherlock dawdling managed to get into a position that would allow him to drink from the glass and downed the offered meds with the now dissolved vitamins.

"You want something to help you sleep, too?" John offered. He was sure Sherlock was not good at all with the memories of the week of this imprisonment, if his jerkiness and the nightmares were any indication. Probably there were even more things from the past two years that would pass as traumatic, but he needed to wait for another moment to ask for those.

"No."

"Okay, I will get some stuff from Tesco. Rest."

Sherlock made no signs that he was interested to move.

The doctor briefly touched the back of Sherlock's head, trying to show support and give some comfort. "Take a nap. I'll be back in an hour."

Sherlock didn't react and John understood that he might want some peace and quiet after this ordeal.

…

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_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. Please tell me what you think and write a review._


	15. Chapter 15

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

.

_Thank you all for writing reviews and hanging onto my stories. I'm having a hard time and this is a small light in my currently kind of dark world. Thank you so much for your kindness :)_

_._

_Ehm… this might be a bit dark therefore, too._

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**Chapter 15 **

**Tuesday night - Nightmares**

Sherlock felt John's hand on his back, cleaning him up, he tried to escape to his mind palace, as he had done during the long hours of torture. But back then he had not always been able to get inside because the shockwaves of pain and humiliation had made him loose the path to the entrance…. They had also damaged the palace but he had not yet had the strength to find it and repair it… He tried to stay with John when he couldn't find the path immediately. He had so often longed for his presence in the cellar it felt kind of a waste of kindness to wander away. John asked and he answered. Concentrating on him with all his senses covered the memories up, at least temporarily.

John was breathing faster than normal, hands steady and gentle, almost careful. Usually John's touch was more firm.

The taste of John's shock lingered in the air… and something else…. Disgust, anger, guilt? Whatever is was, it made the room sticky… not lingering on that…. back to John…. He smelled also tired and typically like John. His senses were indeed really glad to sense him again. The fact that he was alive and in 221b was so … _soothing_…. A few years ago he had never even thought he would be able to connect a sensation to the word and now the feeling registered as extraordinary important. He tried to lean in into that sentiment and keep it safe. When John uttered he would punch Mycroft for letting him being tormented actually brought some satisfaction, although he knew he would not allow it…. not to keep Mycroft safe, but to protect John from Mycroft's anger.

Some time later the needle and threat went through skin where the local had failed to numb him completely. The stinging sensation brought back the memories of the dungeon once more and he decided to bring them to the mental vault right now.

Breathing deeply he concentrated to go to the mind palace… it took three tries to actually get in, but he made it.

He rushed to the vault, which he had built into a whole new underground level. Getting in with all the security measures and codes and identification and so on took some time, but he managed. When he tried to leave the memories had gotten kind of sticky and were hard to let go.

When he turned around he found the mass had a tail… a slick one… a connection like a stretched lump of bubble gum. He picked it up from the ground and tried to drag it in, but it became longer and thinner. Angry about the ungraceful-ness he tried to follow it outside to find the source, it went up the stairs. He would have laughed out loud if the whole thing wasn't this dreadful! How this behaved in here was just ridiculous. He hated this special trifle.. and that he was not able to handle it.

Finally pulling the thing got easier and he messily rolled the visualisation of the memory into the vault, it had turned from slimy grey-green into an alarming orange by now. Banging the heavy door shut he entered the code. This would never get out of there of it's own!

"Sherlock, you are exhausted, when have you last slept?" John's voice rang through the palace and Sherlock fought his way back to reality.

John wanted to talk. He couldn't… not now, not in this position… he was so tired….

It was all so ugly… and … then he was suddenly confronted with even uglier thoughts. John wanted to see proof he wasn't sexually abused. On one hand he was …. sad… yes, this was actually sadness…. about the fact that John didn't just believe him but needed to see how far down the marks went… he rolled his eyes, but he owed John honesty… he had squandered his trust… he needed to show prove. Okay, for John he would do this, if there was any chance he would be able to gain John's trust again* it would be by trusting him and showing him, so he worked himself out of his pants.

The heating was switched on…. Good…. John was always good to him, more than he deserved. To not have him around, and instead other people, had shown him so very clearly how extraordinary John was, how he cared, how he was friendly to him…. And right now he felt like he had never done anything to deserve John's friendship… in _his_ understanding of the world he of course had, but now he realized this was not what John needed, John needed care _he_ felt was care, not what Sherlock thought would mean care in his own mindset. Making one felt cared for depended on what the receiving person would feel good with, not what he wanted John to feel good with. For _this_ one needed to know John's definitions of feeling cared for… John had probably uttered them and at least a few were stored somewhere in the database…. but he knew very often he had not really cared about those utterances enough to register at all.

It was okay that John was no longer wanting to be his friend after he had left him. John was right, he was a dick, didn't deserve a friend.

John tried to convince him to sleep, but the remembered horror of his last nightmare made him back off the thought immediately.

John gave him painkillers and told him to have a nap… and then - Sherlock felt his whole body produced horripilation - John rested a hand on the back of his head before he left the room. This was when the fragile shell of holding it all contained got another crack, Sherlock could in fact hear the fissure open and felt the tearing in his mind.

Another few seconds later he felt hot liquid on his face… the same sensation he had felt when standing on the roof of Barts… and a whole bundle of fear rushed back into him… back then he had tried to calm himself with the thought that all would be fine as soon as he had destroyed Moriarty's net and he would be back in London….

How had it all gone so wrong?

He felt the tearing pain that saying goodbye to John had caused back then again …. And now John rejected him… Why was he even here? Out of pity? He had said he had forgiven him… was that the same or the opposite of rejection?

Been forgiven... the last time when he actually had fought his tears, though they had fallen never the less ... in the bomb/train compartment. It had felt raw and the fondness and anger from John had mixed and he was confused and felt so bad about having been so cruel to John to return to his life. He knew he had disabled the bomb, failed to say so with the storm of emotions that had whirled around in his head and then prolonged the moment to get his thoughts out. The idea of having messed up John's live again and what an asshole he was to have done it _again_ hit him full force that moment…. And instead of thanking John for his kindness of saying he forgives him he had laughed about it all and made jokes about it - to hide his tears…. not really what a friend would do. John's relief that they were actually not about to die and maybe messed up apology had overwhelmed the doctor, in hindsight he wondered why John hadn't punched him again, he would have deserved that then, too.

Now he felt like this again. He felt like he didn't deserve any of John's kindness. He never ever had been a good friend to John, hadn't he? He searched the database….. even the few times when he had thought he had been nice were mostly not accepted as with a 'good intention' in the end. Exhaustion caused havoc and chaos in his thoughts. He had tried to label the feelings about the whole affair neatly in order to find ways to counteract John's and his own disarray…. Head ached…. John's touch had assembled some dark red sleep that rolled over him and clenched around him, he didn't fight it, he was just too spend to resist… a few moments later all thoughts were gone.

.

Nothingness didn't stay empty long, soon it turned into a bit of something and then pulled his mind into a wild reminiscence that he wasn't able to sort out.

He was getting out of a taxi at Barts, wanting to see Molly - their first meeting after his return - when his gaze was drawn towards the edge of the roof. He didn't want to look at the rim, the memory of how terrifying (he had never thought that there would be anything in his life that would earn that adjective) it had been to call John still lingering way to intense…

There was a figure on the roof. Couldn't be… the possibility that someone else would chose this location to commit suicide, too was minimal. There were so many buildings in London one could jump off, why chose this one? ….

His heart missed a beat when he realized the outline was familiar. He looked closer…. No, couldn't be… Nonono!… Something was dancing through the air between him and the motionless figure on the roof…. a small piece of paper, oddly it moved towards him, he wondered if yelling would make John hear him…. _He_ had heard sounds from down the streets quite clearly while standing up there… the sound waves traveling upwards far better than the other way. He had heard John's panicked yells… his name… John had yelled his name… God… He felt hot liquid on his face again, just like he had felt while standing up there…. The sheet of paper fell to the ground and although he wanted to do everything that might stop John he felt the need to pick it up first.

John's handwriting was on it, and that was the only thing that made him not screw it up … 'I can not live with the hurt you did to me, by not trusting me and by being so cruel to make me watch you die and think you were dead. I want the hurt to end.'

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, all that he had done with so good intentions, to save John, to save his friends, had gone horribly wrong because of the way he had done it and his dismissal of the factor named 'sentiment', because he had dismissed that vital factors as being not important…

He started to ran towards the hospital… he needed to stop this! The moment he came close to the pavement he saw the figure fall and smash to the ground in front of him…. like a rag doll, the suddenness of the movement making him jerk back.

He had never been disgusted by broken bodies… or bodies at all, but this… this changed all… John's broken body on the pavement… this couldn't be, he had been alive and standing upright a few moments ago, how could his state have changed so abruptly? … No .. No… ! This can't be happening…. no…

Blood was all over John's face and creating a pool under his lifeless body… he felt the urge to try to contain it but on the other hand knew the brutal truth was that even if it would stay inside, John's body was damaged to much for any chance of survival at all… after a fall like this.

He felt nausea rise…. if this was reality, he would not be able to stand it any longer, he would not want to stay… he could not live with … this.

Then it hit him…. and it was even worse than what he had just witnessed…. This was John's memories… just reversed… he was going through what John had been confronted with…. oh god, _he_ was the one who had done it to him… by making him think he was dead and by play-acting good…. He had even been proud of the performance but right now he was …. disgusted…

Then a concept hit him. He knew it existed, but he had never experienced it like this. Of course he was able to know how things felt for other persons, like when he saw someone get hurt physically and he _knew_ it must cause pain, but it usually did not make him cringe, he just knew because he had stored somewhere which wounds did cause which kind of hurt, none of his own feelings too intense about it when he saw them on others.… But he knew other people did this a lot more, their empathy a lot more intense than his. People could jump into feeling-conditions with others, feeling for/with them.

He had never seen the use in that, what he felt and thought was just to strange for others and what others felt to strange for him. Like he had never really known was jealousy was, sure he knew it existed and he knew the symptoms, but had he ever experienced something he would describe as that feeling? There were other feelings like that, too, good and bad ones which concept he had problems to grasp. They were many feelings in his mind, but they were all so abstractly different from all descriptions of sentiment other people provided. It was a puzzle to sort out which of his feelings met the terms of others… he had been working on that particular puzzle since he was a small child.

But now it hit him that the term …'to empathize with someone' really meant, to think in somebody's shoes. He was confronted not just with John's shoes, but also with his own if the situation would be reversed… it was so much worse to think John would die than to think he would! ….

Nausea rose. The intensity made his head hurt even more. He wanted to flee…. But John had by no means had a way to get out of this reality… so why was he thinking he deserved one? He stared down at John's lifeless form and then felt his knees hit the ground hard… he remembered John touching him when he had lain on the pavement, desperately seeking for his pulse, had heard John's voice break.

Then the intensity of the horrible emotions made him wretch and in the middle of it everything turned black and awareness first exploded in dire hurt and then everything slipped away. He didn't fight, he wanted the agony to end, he just surrendered… the bitter taste in his mouth and mind followed him into the darkness, but finally that also vanished into nothingness.

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_A/N:_

_*The stony path Sherlock went to entrust John with his needs are described in more detail in my stories 'Lessons in Friendship 4 – Enduring care' and 'Lessons in Friendship 7 – Needing something.'_

_._

_Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think and write a review._


	16. Chapter 16

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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_For all of you who don't like Mary, just skip/ignore this chapter. _

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**Chapter 16**

** Tuesday night – Talking to Mary**

John returned to the kitchen, stopping at the table for a moment, not sure what to do. This was all a bit too much right now…. he decided he needed a minute before heading for a drugstore and Tesco.

He fled to his room and sunk down in front of his bed, leaning against it with his face burrowed in his hands… he distantly felt them get wet and just sat there, in a mixture of stunned and empathic hurting with the best friend he ever had, then his mind switched to sort through the events of the past two weeks….

This was all so much in such a short time… Hell, three weeks ago he bought the ring and everything seemed clear…. This had turned his carefully balanced world upside down, he had just managed to get the balance back and the courage to start living again. This was just too much for two weeks!

He still was kind of afraid he would wake up any moment and find out he had been dreaming… It was so unreal, and still hurt so much… and was so confusing… and Sherlock was hurting and confused, too. ….. And he had to admit he was afraid…. afraid of more things he would learn about Sherlock's hiatus and what he had been through…. and he _would_ ask for them! He'd not allow Sherlock's inner wounds to fester and get worse, and he knew he'd suffer from several of those after such an ordeal, even Sherlock who could deal with every fucking thing had them.

John had intended to find out what was wrong and to work on restoring their friendship in the days of his stay, and he had not expected it to be easy, but this…. this was a mess!

He had not really thought it'd be a walk in the park, but he had not expected it to be this bad and draining. Almost every conversation they had had since Sherlock was back contained some sort of explosive or sore emotional content. Of course he knew this was a part of healing, to grapple with all the hurt and anger… But on the other hand he also just wished for some normal events or hours or days, that made them both enjoy their company and … feel like old times.

He wanted to remember how things had been before the fall.

The hurt of loss had tainted so many memories of their time together in a bad way after Sherlock's death, _because_ of Sherlock's death. … He still hadn't managed to face the memories without those bad feelings and now it was additionally all hurting with betrayal, too. The suicide had already felt like betrayal, like being left…. He knew he was about to really loose it… and realized he would not go to Tesco anytime soon…. He dragged the duvet from the bed and kind of clumsily wrapped it around his shoulders.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he moaned in annoyance…. he was not sure he was willing to talk… but when he pulled the thing out he saw it was Mary and decided to pick up. He gulped down his distress and cleared his voice.

"Hey…" his voice was low and shaky.

"What happened?" Mary asked immediately.

"I made him show me where he hurt." John pressed out without introduction.

"And?"

John gulped once more, trying to keep his emotions in check once more.

"I…. He was tortured…. I…." John stammered and before he really knew what happened Mary had made him tell her everything that had happened in detail. He was glad she listened and comforted him, and tried to counteract him blaming himself.

Half an hour later she asked "Where is he now?"

"Hopefully asleep… but more likely experimenting or…. whatever."

"You're upstairs?"

"Yeah, I needed a moment. I wanted to go to Tesco, get some supplies and antibiotics."

"Maybe you should stay with him. This sounds not like the Sherlock you have told me about."

"Yeah, he is different…. it's scarrying me, to be honest. He's somehow… soft and different, I don't know how to describe it."

"You don't think it's PTSD, do you?"

"No, not yet at least. But it was one or more traumatic events and he is showing the normal coping mechanisms of that… and that he is - at least partially - denying them. I asked him questions to find out if he is suffering from the typical, normal responses to trauma or if they are typical for PTSD. I mean… I'm not an expert, but by trying to live with it I leaned a lot…. For example he is not reliving situations, he is rethinking them, analyzing them, can't stop thinking about them, that is totally normal after a trauma, if _reliving_ them would occur and not fade within a few weeks I'll worry about a disorder….. I asked him a few more other things and he answered me. He definitely has problems with the memories of that cellar and something else his was closed up about… and definitely suffers post traumatic stress, but not PTSD. I want to help him… I know how dark it is where he is right now. He won't trust anyone else….. I just don't know _how_ to help him. I feel so useless and helpless…. There is nothing that could comfort a Sherlock Holmes….." His voice trailed off …. no, wait, there was at least one thing…. the violin!

"I fear not only you have to cope with him being back, he has, too. Imagine being on the run for two years, doing everything to be invisible, chasing the most dangerous criminal and his goons for two whole years…. Alone…. No backup…. No voice of reason to listen to…. No doctor available…. "

"God, he even told me 'his senses missed me'."

Mary laughed. "Oh, that's so cute…. Nice in fact."

"Yeah, he is trying to be nice… and he has apologized several times for …. you know."

"Yes. … John, what you said earlier about him not caring for himself…. I don't want to meet trouble halfway here, but isn't this a bit…. borderline self-harming?" She carefully suggested.

"It is. Has always been, but maybe you're right, it's more than usual."

"He's not forgiven himself for the hurt he caused you. He is punishing himself."

"That would mean he is hating himself for having treated me bad…. That's a bit too much caring for … I mean he's Sherlock! I am not sure he _can_ care as intensive as that."

"Oh yes, he can…. And you told me he had cared about you before the fall…. In his own way but he did. Right now you're still angry and therefore thinking he doesn't."

"What makes you so sure he cares?"

"I sat on that bike with him."

"And?.."

"It was …. intense. When I arrived and showed him the message on my phone and he understood you were in danger… he dumped down his meal in the middle of the carpet and ran down the stairs with me."

"That's Sherlock. Totally normal."

Mary giggled and it made John's heart a tiny little bit lighter.

"He drove like a berserk, risky, on high alert… and like a pro…. Really, I mean down several stairs, through underground tunnels, and even up one of the stairs, it was the hell of a ride. Did you know he's that skilled with motorcycles? Came close to stunt driving actually…. But for his skills he was really kind of nervous…. I held onto him and he was trembling, breathing fast… not just a bit… even his voice showed his distress. He was driving like mad, even reckless. He did not care for his life and not for mine…. Well, I didn't either that moment, but… what I want to say is…. Gosh, you should have seen him dragging you out, he went into that fire as if the possibility to get burned didn't even exist. He pulled the wood, that was actually having flames all over it away, he wore gloves, but actually he just reached in …. That makes me wonder…. have you checked him for burns?"

'Be assured, I will.' John wanted to say but all that came out was a wrangled sob, he pressed his thumb over the microphone so Mary wouldn't hear him again, he had done that enough for a years in the past two weeks and it was seriously getting on his nerves not to be able to control his emotions.

"I think the man loves you like a brother…. probably more… and right now he has to cope not only with the torture but with the collapse of the world he had planned to return to, because this world is gone…. you moved on. He has to share you, has to cope with your anger, which he maybe doesn't really understand… He might still be so shocked about your rejection, he is not yet able to understand you have forgiven him….. and he is probably still sensing your anger which makes him totally confused. Give him time to cope and show him you care and you won't abandon him….. John?"

John tried to get his composure back enough to speak.

"John?"

"Hmm." He managed, but knew she heard how wet it sounded.

"Oh, I'm so sorry this is so hard on you, feel hugged…."

"Ta." John mumbled.

"John?…. Do you need me to come home?"

"No….. no… it's fine."

"You don't sound like fine…. Not really."

"I will be. I just need a minute. Tell me about your day."

She did and it gave him time to regain his composure and resurface from his grief and shock. Half an hour later they said their goodbyes and John hung up.

John headed downstairs to check on Sherlock and decided shopping could wait….

Sherlock had not moved but was in a restless sleep.

John decided to watch some telly, eat the takeaway and sleep on the couch.

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_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. _


	17. Chapter 17

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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_I had already decided with every re-reading of this chapter to delete it and go straight into Wednesday, but I found I couldn't. I am aware this is not the best chapter I have written, sorry. It's a bit too emotional and too soft-boiled for my taste, but… well, I am to hammered tender (german expression about being messed up translated directly) and I am too messed up myself right know to just make good decisions, so here it is… very short… Just wanted to underline John's understanding of Sherlock's state. _

_Wednesday will follow soon, and there is 'something' ahead I was a tiny bit content with while re-reading/proof-reading. _

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**Chapter 17 **

**Tuesday – Nightmares revealed**

John woke up a few hours later on the sofa.

He blinked into the dim light and realized he had left the standard lamp switched on in case he needed it.

How the hell was Sherlock sleeping on this sofa at all? Of course he had slept here before, but right now it felt more uncomfortable than ever before.

A tiny moan registered in his brain.

Sherlock!

He sat up and threw back the blanket.

He was next to Sherlock before registering he was off the sofa.

"Sherlock?"

No response. The man was clearly dreaming. John switched on the bedside lamp and saw Sherlock had moved. He was no longer on his stomach but had moved quite a bit on the bed, if the rumpled sheets were any indication.

Sherlock's face was turned to the other wall, away from John and the doctor decided to round the bed therefore. John bent over him and carefully brushed away Sherlock's hair with his flat hand.

What he saw made him suck in air in surprise. Sherlock's face was wet with sweat and maybe tears? Then it contorted and John since John had not seen so much agony on Sherlock's face before he sucked in air in surprise.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

No reaction.

This felt very familiar. John had woken him twice in the past days, dragged him out of obviously horrible nightmares that way.

John made a decision. Sherlock was quite bad and having severe nightmares, no need to prolong this. John left the room to get his medical bag.

Two minutes later he entered the room with a glass of water which was laced with his anti-anxiety-medication in one hand and the instruction leaflet in the other, reading while walking. He had taken this stuff several times after Sherlock's fall when his PTSD had a comeback and he wasn't able to keep his panic attacks in check in other ways. It was kind of an emergency thing for him, fast acting.

The very moment he stepped over the threshold Sherlock started to flail around in his bed in earnest.

"NO!…. John… don't….. " Sherlock's voice was a whisper, barely understandable.

John froze and listened.

"…..Please…. don't… no….." Sherlock mumbled into the sheets.

"Sherlock? I am here….." John had never heard Sherlock speak like this. It made him hurt with the vulnerability that was hearable in Sherlock's voice. What was the man dreaming about? The torture?

He gently pried away the blankets and pillows and tried get easier access to Sherlock's head. "…Sherlock, wake up for me, would you…."

Nothing happened that indicated Sherlock might have heard him.

"I need you to drink this."

After long seconds he finally managed to unearth Sherlock's face. "Come on."

The doctor gently lifted Sherlock's head a bit.

"Drink this."

He pressed the rim of the glass to Sherlock's lips and waited if automatism would take over and make Sherlock drink. Of course there was also a chance that Sherlock would shove him away and spill the liquid all over the bed.

"Drink." He ordered, a bit louder.

It took after another five seconds until Sherlock slowly opened his lips and drank.

John was sure this was the autopilot acting, and when Sherlock had finished the suspicion was confirmed when the detective muttered "Please…. Don't jump, John…. We can fix this…. god, please….."

John's heart grew cold, like his chest started to freeze over… if felt vaguely familiar.

He knew the feeling, sometimes this set in motion a severe episode of panic. Sherlock must be dreaming of him to jump from a roof for a change. It made him hurt in sympathy….. Sherlock was experiencing were John had been. John's breath turned into solid material in his chest….. Maybe he should dose himself with the stuff, too. He tried to gulp down the panic… and to hide it somewhere.

Sherlock gave a tiny pitiful noise of shocked surprise.

This meant…. not only that Sherlock was experiencing the hurt and horror and everything else the doctor had immediately before and after the fall but it also said a lot about Sherlock's psyche… the empathy that was needed to see the fall from 'the other side' needed a huge amount of care and interest in the well-being for said side.

Several seconds later Sherlock's face relaxed and he made a sound that came close to a silent sob.

John took his wrist in both hands and held it, not only to assure himself the man was alive and with him but also to monitor his pulse.

Suddenly John was overwhelmed with the whole spectrum of how deeply Sherlock must be regretting this, not only consciously, but unconsciously, too.

The fact what Sherlock was experiencing this event unraveled in his subconscious mind drew tears into John's eyes once more.

God, this was awesome.

He had not dared to believe Sherlock was capable of this… The realization of the depth of the perception of Sherlock's feelings shocked him …. And then he saw another tear run down Sherlock's still face and he felt his own face burn with hurt and sadness.

Hell, this was really awful!

He had been angry and he had indeed wished several times in the past weeks and months that Sherlock would feel or could get a taste of how bad it had been for him to be carelessly confronted with the horror of the fall. But right now seeing how hard it was on Sherlock made him feel guilt for having had that wish.. and for being cruel.

He had expected Sherlock's nightmares were about the torture, probably loads of them were, but this was about John being in danger of dying and that said a lot.

When he saw the pain on the other man's face about the idea that John had died, he wondered if he had looked the same while sinking to the ground, held and slowed down by the hands of strangers at that pavement in front of Bart's.

Sherlock made another slow gasping noise. John didn't dare to touch him or comfort him physically… he just lowered his own head and bit his lower lip, waiting.

Sherlock needed help… he himself had needed help… It had been so bad not to have company with his own grief back then, but Sherlock was the one needing comfort now and he would do this…. he would be here, for him _he_ would do this!

"Sherlock… I am right here and I won't leave…. You might want to wake up, now…." John bent down and murmured into Sherlock's ear. "Come on, relax. I am fine… you are fine… we both are fine… open your eyes for me….."

Sherlock did not show any sign of hearing him.

.

Half an hour later nothing had changed, except that John had sat down on the bed next to the dreaming detective.

Sherlock was deep inside his nightmare, no matter how John begged and carefully touched and shook him.

The doctor hoped the anti- anxiety medication would kick in soon. It was quite strong and John hoped it would allow Sherlock to sleep the rest of the night without disturbances.

"Shhhh…. You are fine…. I am safe… no roofs here… we are home safely…. at 221b…. just us…. relax, Sherlock…." John tried to sooth them both.

"Hmmmm….." Sherlock moaned and John wondered if it was finally a reaction to his presence.

"Everything will be fine….." John mumbled, not sure if he himself dared to believe it, but he doubted Sherlock was hearing his words, he only needed to hear John was present and fine, everything else didn't really matter.

John realized Sherlock had done quite a lot to get back to the life they had had, endured a lot, fought a lot, sacrificed a lot. After tonight John found he had not doubt at all that Sherlock had done all of it to make sure John was safe…. Mary had hinted at it, Sherlock had wanted to return to his former life, but it was gone….

He wondered how disappointed Sherlock must have felt when he realized the doctor had moved on. Not even the slightest hint of appreciation for what the detective had sacrificed, confronted and gone through, only confronted with John's anger and hurt… John had even refused to listen to how he had faked it….

Sherlock had suggested John had missed it all…. Of course he had! It had almost killed him how fucking much he had missed it, but Sherlock had not understood… not understood that he had missed it _so_ much he found he didn't want to live without it… otherwise he would not have made that stupid comment. But there had been this tiny irrational bit of doubt that had kept him alive these two years… he still didn't know what it was, but it had been there.

Sherlock drew a deep breath and when John wondered if there was any hope for relaxing sleep at all Sherlock exhaled slowly…..

"John?" It was more of a breath than speech.

"I am here, Sherlock…. And I will not leave." John took his hand and held it, not sure if he was overstepping a boundary or if Sherlock was awake enough to register him answering at all…. The only thing he knew was the hurt wavering across the room and his eyes stinging again. He was so very tired of the world being so dark and weary…. And Sherlock being alive was a light at the horizon he had never dared to wait for.

But touching Sherlock seemed to have been the right thing because the other man visibly relaxed and a few minutes later he slipped into a deeper state of sleep.

John relaxed, too. His face was wet and his soul hurt with understanding and everything else he had learned tonight. Sherlock wanted him here, he probably needed him but he had not forgiven himself yet for the hurt he had caused John, this was more clear to him than ever, now.

John sat on the bedside for a long time after that, some more silent tears fell about the whole mess.

John was busy making sure Sherlock was fine and reflecting all that had happened today, again and again.

In the early hours of the morning he returned to the couch.

Something had changed. He felt spend and exhausted with grief and hurt but - he was almost terrified to admit it - but crying over / with Sherlock's healing form had … changed something.

Sherlock's regret was tainting and hurting him, but Sherlock's regret was so sincerely honest it soothed something deep inside John's soul.

A tiny odd aspect of his mind he had buried so deep in a dark corner and that had been sore for so long and that he had so desperately tried to ignore… that one had started to heal… started to get better… something had changed… for the better.

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_A/N:_

_I was really overwhelmed with the positive feedback I got for the last chapter. Thank you all who took their time to review…. You made my day! THANK YOU SO MUCH! :´)_

_Thank you for reading and staying with me.._


	18. Chapter 18

**_Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability_**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Thanks to all the great and kind readers who take their time to leave a review for me. Though I am not sure I deserve so much kindness it warms my soul, thank you very much. :)_

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**Chapter 18**

**Wednesday**

John woke up when Sherlock put on the kettle. He got up to see how he was doing immediately.

"Oh, hi." He greeted a Sherlock who was slowly hanging several teabags into the tea pot. The aftermath of last night clearly visible on him. His hair was dishevelled and John wasn't even sure if his eyes were open.

"Hmm." Sherlock answered.

John opted against asking how he felt, knowing what Sherlock's reaction would most likely be and his looks spoke volumes.

"Oh….. No showers for you for now." John informed when Sherlock headed for the bathroom.

"Great!" Sherlock hissed then changed direction and went to the living room table with the tea instead.

John went to have a shower.

When John returned fifteen minutes later he fetched the painkillers and put them in front of Sherlock, who ignored them. John sat down opposite of the other man. Sherlock was sipping at his tea and reading the paper - he heard Sherlock's phone chime.

"Hey, is that a new case or maybe Lestrade with new information about the last victim?" He tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible. When Sherlock didn't react he fetched the phone from the coffee table and tipped Sherlock's upper arm with it.

"Read it then." Sherlock mumbled.

John opened the text, biting his lips when he realized that finding a new victim might translate for Sherlock as 'too much a failure to help preventing it'. He grimaced when indeed the text was from Lestrade and said that a new body was found.

"Take the painkillers."

"What?"

"Take the pill and I will tell you."

Sherlock paused a moment, then - clearly unnerved - put the pill in his mouth and washed it down with some tea.

"Happy now?" He muttered.

"New victim found, will pick you up in 30." John read out loud. Sherlock didn't move.

"Come on, get dressed." John tried to encourage Sherlock, when he didn't move.

Sherlock got up without complaining but without giving the impression he wanted to either. His expression was empty and when he stood up he swayed slightly. John gripped his arm.

"Oi… Sherlock?" He gazed at him, examining him that way as good as possible.

"I am fine, thank you." Sherlock answered a bit stunned and not moving, which shocked John more than if he had pulled out of his grasp and reacted irritated.

"Hey, how about we try to make this a normal day without any difficult themes… we both need a break, can we do that?… You know, enjoy that there is a serial killer on the loose and some game is _on_….?" He didn't like the words when people got hurt but wanted to signal Sherlock he was ready to do it his way and go with it.

"The idea that joy exists is an illusion." Sherlock grunted.

He turned and John let go, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

"No themes would be tremendously delightful, though." Sherlock added with biting exaggerated joy but his voice simultaneously carried sarcasm.

"I'll have a wash then." Sherlock scuffed towards the bathroom.

.

Fifteen minutes later John was eating breakfast when Lestrade came up the stairs, as soon as he saw John the greeting got stuck in his mouth.

"John? What happened, you look like death warmed over…. You're okay?" Greg stepped nearer, the worry obvious on his face.

"Hi…. Yeah, peaky!"

"That bad, huh?"

John just nodded.

"What happened?"

"I… He…. " But John still had problems saying it. He exhaled slowly "… he's been tortured…" he then blurted out, unable to keep his dismay inside.

Lestrade's gaze went through the room, trying to grasp the situation.

"What?…. When?"

"Immediately before he came back…. His back is a mess." John heard how the water in the bathroom was turned off. "We should not talk about this now. He is depressed and he will be a hell a nuisance if we go with you…. That he's not been able to solve this already is really getting to him, in addition to all the other shit I mean."

"Okay." The DI answered softly. "So we need to cheer him up really carefully and as long lasting as possible."

"How are we supposed to do that? I am at the end of my rope… kind of…. I have no idea how to fix this any more."

"Have you slept since you are here?"

"More than him. Who's at the scene?" John changed the topic.

"Sally, but none else Sherlock really knows, yet."

"Maybe you should warn them." John whispered in a defeated voice.

"They already know." Lestrade pattered his shoulder in silent support.

"Where is he?" Lestrade raised his voice to make his arrival public.

"Getting dressed." John answered.

The next moment Sherlock came out of his room, fully dressed in a suit and headed for his coat.

"Nice to see you finally managed to use the key." He greeted the inspector.

"Nice to see you, too, Sherlock." Greg answered.

"You're coming, John?" Sherlock asked without looking at them while wrapping the blue scarf around his neck.

"Yeah, 'course." John jumped up and into his shoes as fast as he could. They left the flat two minutes later.

.

Another two minutes later they were in a _police_ car heading for the scene. John asked Greg if they could stop at the chemist and then went to get antibiotics and prescription vitamins. The doctor was a bit angry at himself for not having managed to get them last night, on the other hand he had not liked the idea to leave Sherlock alone in the flat.

Sherlock took the pills without making a scene or a drop of water.

The small flat was overcrowded with a medical examiner, Donovan and two other men. A psychologist tried to calm down a crying woman who was the best friend of the victim.

The dead young woman was on her couch, looking as if she was just taking a nap. The only hint that she was dead was her paleness and a kind of artificial posture.

"Ahead of schedule."

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"She is dead for at least a day, which means our killer is not keeping the same rhythm of days between his kills as before. So, the same number of days before were accidental or he changed his procedure or they were never important."

"Yeah."

Lestrade ordered Sally to take the victim's friend outside for a break while Sherlock and John were inspecting the scene. Sally had an odd, maybe even shy expression on her face, it made John wonder if she felt as guilty as she should about her part in Sherlock fall into disgrace. John was still angry at her and maybe her gaze was on the ground because of his angry aura? Sherlock ignored her, acted as if she wasn't there.

The consultant detective went over the victim's clothes and looked at the insides of the blouse's cuffs and at the sock's font seams and finally felt for the straps of her vest with a single finger, which were twisted on the left.

Then he inspected the underside of the sofa, her computer and finally the rest of the flat within twenty minutes. He was a blast of movement.

John had to admit he had not expected Sherlock to be this fresh-looking and appearing clear in his mind after last night… or at least not that he would be able to hide his distress and exhaustion that good. He acted as if nothing had happened…. Well, except for the extreme pale complexion and the really bad dark circles under Sherlock's eyes, which were also not overseen by the DI.

"You two are alright?" Lestrade asked while watching Sherlock haste from one corner of the bedroom to the other.

"Not really…." John answered honestly. "… but we might be heading there."

"You both look like hell."

"I know. Hard night."

"With what you found I can imagine. Okay, just let me know if you need anything. I want to help." Greg answered softly.

"Thank you." John smiled tiredly at him and Lestrade understood that John trusted him, but was not able to talk about anything right now. This fact kind of fuelled his worry, though.

Sherlock whooshed past them. "One more tablet user sharing her whole boring life with the world…. Tablet is missing, though."

"So how do you know it should be here?"

"Can you actually think or at least keep up? Instead of just standing there… maybe pretend you do anything at all to work this out or at least … " Sherlock demanded but then stopped.

"I hope to learn from watching you deducing. Besides, usually you yell at us when we try to think while you are deducing and disturb your enlightenments by doing that." Lestrade remarked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"You are making fun of me?" Sherlock asked with a bite in his voice.

"No, just glad to have you back." Lestrade retorted and that made Sherlock stop dead in his tracks, frown on his face….

"You're getting sentimental?" He spit.

"My right to be a bit of that after missing your help on cases for two years, isn't it?" Lestrade teased friendly.

"Don't start!" Sherlock was clearly getting unnerved and John chuckled. Sherlock stared at them for two seconds, than rolled his eyes and turned away with a flying coat. "Bah!" He muttered in obvious playacted disgust and heading into the kitchen to continue there.

John and Lestrade followed and Sherlock smelled the kettle, inspected the fridge, the oven, the waste bin and the recycling paper basket.

He then brushed past them into the bathroom, where he peered into everything he could find.

"Forensics need to go through the waste bins around this house…. Neighbours, too."

"What are we looking for?"

"I don't know yet."

"Walk us through your findings, please." John urged.

"The victim was here for the last two nights, though our killer wasn't. He ate here but cleaned up thoroughly. Neat person, carried out the garbage, put new bags in the bins, likes instant pizza…."

"Instant pizza, is that the one where you just add boiling water and then it's finished?" Lestrade grinned.

"Oh, you know what I mean….those… disgusting things that don't even deserve the name pizza."

"If you don't expect to eat pizza it's not too bad. Now and then I like them." Lestrade answered.

"Then maybe you can tell me where this brand can be purchased." Sherlock held up a cardboard box that was clearly not from one of the 'better-tasting' brands, but looked extremely cheap.

Lestrade winced about the forbiddingly greasy and raw looking pizza on the packaging.

It looked like none ever wanted to eat this if they had a choice. "I wonder if the company is washing money…"

"What?" Lestrade laughed in disbelieve.

"Clearly no company in their right mind would want to keep people from buying their products, the only explanation for a picture this disgusting is that they don't actually want people to buy it…. there must be a reason…."

John and Lestrade grinned.

"Yeah, we will think about that later… a lot later….. back to the murder."

"Yes, right… the murderer brought at least two extremely bad _frozen meals_, I doubt the victim was able to eat with the drug cocktail in her system, so I estimate the perpetrator was here for two days or evenings, not the nights, though, or he or she didn't sleep.

"What …?" John started.

"The cupboards are filled with organic and health food, no chance the victim bought those pizza. Check if nearby stores sell that brand, check for cashless buys, find out who bought two of those and when during the past week….. Victim was dressed by someone else, dirty laundry is gone…. The bed has not been slept in in days… and none changed sheets recently… or if they did they put on used ones… highly unlikely for a person who is otherwise as neat as our suspect is. We also need to check the other victim's flats for unusual food wrappings."

Lestrade brought a large evidence bag and put the paperboard inside, then labelled it with 'check for fingerprints'.

"That might be his first big mistake… or maybe hers."

"Before today you never said 'her', why now?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Sherlock, please." John said.

"Sorry.. there are a few hints. The victim was not assaulted, she was treated and moved carefully, and … no, wait…" he went back to the dead woman and shoved both legs of her yoga pants upwards, then produced his magnifier from one of his coat pockets. He knelt down and went searchingly over her lower legs.

"There are some slight bruises on the legs, they will be better visible in a few hours, made by relatively careful and small hands and shortly before she passed away.…. and there's another IV mark here." He turned the leg into an unnatural angle, so John and Lestrade could see. When John puckered his lips and raised his eyebrows in warning Sherlock carefully and respectfully moved the leg back.

"Not good, sorry." He muttered, not to John but to the body.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Sherlock. John was looking at the puncture wound.

"Really small catheter, 22 maybe, probably to make the wound as small as possible… also means a really low flow rate is enough to make the stuff work."

"On the leg? Why on the leg?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock threw John a look, obviously waiting for him to take a closer look or to answer.

"Probably to also hide the wound, or maybe …." John started.

"Yes, or maybe he didn't want the fact that he is drugging them disturb his vision… or the experience." Sherlock finished the sentence.

"In medical care it is used only when the arm or hands are wounded or otherwise not usable to insert a catheter. If you want them easily to be overseen by a superficial examination, this is also where you want to go." John explained. "None of the victims had any brushings around the site. Even a doctor who has done this a thousand times can not always do it without haematoma. Our suspect is skilled with this… or just lucky…. or enough time has passed so that a possible bruise has vanished completely… on the other side such a small gauge is not a good choice at that particular vein. … Hmm… Maybe he keeps them until all marks are gone?… Haematoma most likely form after trying to _insert_ the cannula….. That's odd…. Hang on…. No residue from the dressing…. " The doctor carefully smelled at the site. "…. or redness from removing the adhesive or any obvious solvents."

"Swab." Sherlock held out a hand and Lestrade looked around for the forensics equipment, when he saw the box he grabbed several tubes and then handed two over to Sherlock.

"Take one for us, too." Greg offered, knowing giving Sherlock samples to take home might make him busy with experiments.

Sherlock swabbed the punction site thoroughly twice and then handed them over to John who labeled them without asking. Sherlock repeated the procedure and took saliva samples.

Someone knocked on the open door.

"Stay outside. We are not even close to be finished, here. Get the forensics from downstairs, please." Lestrade told the two young men who carried a stretcher with a body bag. They did not look happy but vanished after putting the gurney down in the narrow stairway laboriously.

"Anything else, Sherlock?"

John handed two tubes back to Sherlock, who stuffed them into his coat, and the other two to Lestrade.

"Not for now. Send me the details." Sherlock stood up suddenly and with a nod of his head greeted Lestrade goodbye, then vanished into the hallway.

John and Lestrade once more stood there, surprised about the suddenness of the exit.

"Er …. Yes." John started, then blew his air out with his eyes raised to the ceiling with a hint of despair.

"Thank you, you were of great help, as usual…. Call me if you need anything, okay? Or if it gets to much, or when you need some company." Greg patted him on the back.

"Thanks, Greg. Sorry about… you know."

"I know."

John followed Sherlock into the hallway, the gurney was parked mindless and John had to balance on his toes to get past it.

Sherlock was slowly walking past the waiting crews, ignoring them completely. John hurried to catch up with him and only when they walked side by side Sherlock started to look for a taxi. This time it took some minutes and they had reached the main road until one of the famous black cars stopped.

.

At home Sherlock indeed started experimenting on the samples and was busy for the rest of the day whenever John tried to speak to him the doctor was told to leave him alone. John hoped he would eventually need some time to think and would unpack the violin but it didn't happen.

Sherlock refused to eat dinner so John ate his takeout meal from the night before himself.

After it he stepped in Sherlock's way when the man rounded the table to return to his microscope.

"Move." Sherlock grunted.

"Not until you take those." John held out the vitamins and antibiotics.

"Not now, I am busy."

"Yes, now!" John ordered.

Sherlock made a sulking face but pulled one glove from his hand and threw it into the waste bin, then grabbed the pills and downed them. John held out a sports drink which Sherlock ignored and went over to the sink and drank directly from the tap. Without another look he rounded the table on the other side and sat down at the microscope.

"Good night, Sherlock." John greeted friendly before he climbed up the stairs to his room.

He set the alarm on his phone for 2 am and went to bed.

…

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_A/N:_

_Constructive criticism and feedback welcome._


	19. Chapter 19

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 19 **

**Thursday – More nightmares**

John had gotten up twice during the night, to check on Sherlock. The chemist was experimenting both times.

After his second check at around five in the morning John found he couldn't get back to sleep, he had tried about half an hour but sleep eluded him.

Finally he stood up again and opened the door of his room to hear Sherlock moving around downstairs. He still craved for every single sound that showed that the man was alive, as for reassurance. John relaxed with the sounds of movement and proofs of life.

A few minutes later when John was again half asleep he realized what else was still missing. The violin! Sherlock had not played a single note in John's presence since his return. John hadn't even seen the instrument anywhere in the flat. Was it lost? Was this another reason for Sherlock's bad mood? He decided to ask him first thing in the morning.

.

When John stood up in the middle of the morning Sherlock was quiet, it was almost eleven o'clock, and John sneaked into the detective's room and spotted him sleeping, it looked like normal sleep.

John decided to go to Tesco's for supplies and something nice for the next dinners.

.

He came back almost an hour later. As soon as John entered the kitchen he heard Sherlock moan. Hastily he put the groceries on the counter and went directly into the living room. Sherlock had moved to the couch during his absence but had fallen asleep there.

The detective's face seemed to be contorted in pain, he was softly panting in his sleep. "Mike… " his voice a thin whisper "Please…"

John was immediately sure Sherlock was dreaming of the torture. Who was Mike?

Sherlock didn't move, not even a tiny bit, but when John stepped closer he saw his face was wet with pain and sweat.

"Sherlock?" John lowered his voice and tried to sound as calming as possible.

"Mike…. Ge'meout." Sherlock in contrast sounded desperate now, he was whispering in a choked voice. Three seconds later he flinched… and flinched again.

"Sherlock, wake up! You're safe."

"Mycroft…." Sherlock's head jerked to the side, it startled John.

"Come on, wake up, this is a dream." John wondered if touching him would be okay, it had been in the past. He reached out from a secure distance and rubbed Sherlock's shoulder firmly. "Hey, you are dreaming." The very moment where Sherlock had mentioned Mycroft the doctor asked himself if this might actually be a flashback.

"Get me out of here…. Please." The last word was what shocked John. Sherlock begged! The word was spoken in a desperate voice and John gulped.

"Sherlock, you are safe! Open your eyes."

John briefly stroked Sherlock's forehead, not only for a calming effect, but also to feel his temperature. Sherlock was clammy and cold, as so often in the past days.

The touch seemed to bring him back, Sherlock just opened his eyes. John wondered if he was actually awake. Waking him was oddly difficult, he had wondered about that already last night. So this time he spoke louder but in a kind tone.

"Sherlock? You're with me?"

Sherlock blinked slowly and John sat down on the coffee table.

Sherlock seemed totally calm on the outside but John saw his pulse beating like mad on his throat and then noted Sherlock was holding his breath once more.

"Breathe Sherlock, you're okay."

"You came back?" Sherlock's voice was rough and even deeper than normal. John did not understand the question. Sherlock's eyes scanned the room, frantically.

After another ten seconds he dragged in a staggering breath which seemed almost painfully controlled.

"Where have you been?" John carefully probed.

"Me? Where have _you_ been?… I was here. You were not." Sherlock's tone sounded reproachful.

"I meant in your dream." He expected Sherlock would refuse to answer, but then the detective replied hoarsely "Serbia."

"Was it reliving a memory or a variation of the events?"

"Variation."

"Okay." John relaxed a bit, this was better than flashbacks. "You want to tell me about it?"

"No." Sherlock mumbled, looking into his lab.

"Okay, what about tea?" John stood up and prepared the kettle, then unpacked some of the multivitamin and mineral pills and returned to the sofa with another bottle of the sports drink.

"Here, you need some vitamins so your body can heal." He sat down on the table again. Sherlock had not moved, probably still a bit stunned with the nightmare.

John held out his hand and Sherlock stared at it for a moment, then his eyes wandered up and met John's.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I want you to get better."

"What for?" Sherlock sounded so tired and so …. John had to admit ….. sad.

"So we can solve crimes again."

John had hoped that would sound good to Sherlock but his expression stayed blank, his gaze wandered back to the colourful pills.

"What are those?"

"High potency vitamin supplement pills, B complex,… C+A…." he pointed at the pills he named "D… Magnesium… Calcium. I prescribe those hereby. You will take one of each every day. You're malnourished and the healing is affected by that…."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to reject…. and still kind of out of it or half asleep.

"Hey…" John tried and carefully reached for Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock picked the pills from his hand slowly and dumped them all at once into his mouth, taking the offered bottle and washing them down with a tiny sip.

"More." John insisted, and Sherlock downed the whole bottle without even seeming to gulp, then he lay back and turned his back to John, which was probably a hint he was dismissed. John went to make some tea.

"Er….. Still no showers for you." John informed when Sherlock headed for the bathroom.

"Great! …. Will you be here when I come out?"!" Sherlock stopped with his back to John in the open bathroom door, waiting for the reply.

John frowned, that was kind of an odd question.

Then he remembered that Sherlock had probably woken up and John had not been there…. he had gone to do the shopping and he had absolutely forgotten to write a note. Had the detective panicked? Thought that John had left?

Uh god, no! Not good! How could he have been so dumb? …. Was that why Sherlock had dreamt about being abandoned or not helped? Had Sherlock thought that he had fulfilled his earlier threat to leave and never come back?

The doctor realized that this threat must have hit Sherlock a lot harder than he had intended or actually meant it to do. Back then Sherlock had stopped rooted to the spot and haven't even done a single step in any direction while John was in the bathroom. It must have really shocked him to be confronted with the idea that John would never come back. _Shit_.

He definitely needed to keep an eye on that.

He knew Sherlock buried his hurts, the severe they were the deeper he buried them. He knew Sherlock was not able to let his pain go, or out, or whatever would help it heal. John assumed Sherlock just didn't know how to do this, he hadn't learned. Maybe the chance that things tended to come back as nightmares was even higher than normal because of that?

His own nightmares about the war and the fall were still quite present and he knew exactly how devastating experiencing them was.

Sherlock had not moved, was still standing there waiting for an answer, his posture had tensed up with every second the doctor had remained silent. Not good.

John hurried over and carefully touched his shoulder.

"Hey? Are you ….? Damn. I am sorry…. I went shopping without writing a note….You woke up and I was not there." John waited for Sherlock to react but the other man was just standing there, tense and silent.

"Did you think I left?" John stared at his back, a bit helpless. "I will not leave, Sherlock. You are not alone with this." Now he was glad Sherlock was facing the other way, not sure if he'd have been able to say this otherwise.

John heard Sherlock gulp and drew a slow, deeper breath. Then Sherlock stepped into the bathroom with hanging shoulders and without turning around, the only thing John knew was that all of this sucked and that he had just thrown some more shit into the fan.

Sherlock did not close the door, he gave it a nudge that made it shut a bit, but not hard enough for the door to close.

John stood there and stared at the door. He was doing that a lot lately, staring after Sherlock in puzzlement, he realized.

This was not the first time Sherlock had acted different than usual. This was new…. John realized he himself was also doing it. His reason was to hear Sherlock, know where he was, hear what he was doing, know that he was safe. Had Sherlock the same reasons? This was a bit ridiculous. He puckered his lips, frustrated. John turned away to get a cuppa.

When he had just sat down at the living room table and prepared some toast for lunch he heard Sherlock's phone chime. The sound was new, he wondered who's it might be.

Sherlock passed him a few minutes later and opened the text message.

"Excellent. Anderson just informed me that the remains of the fire were transported to Scotland Yard as soon as they had cooled down, now the forensics team is finished with them and if we want we can examine them ourselves now."

Anderson? The man had his own text alert sound now? Interesting.

"Since I consider myself quite educated when it comes to ashes I would like to comb through them myself of course. Come on, John."

John relaxed a bit when he heard a tiny hint of that old excited and enthusiastic Sherlock in the tone.

"Oh, okay."

.

An hour later they were in the labs. It was full of different tables with different piles of ashes and rubble from the fire, stored according to the size of the parts of residue. They were all labelled and Sherlock started to go through the notes a young lab assistant had handed them.

"Anderson texted you?" John asked with a frown. Anderson had not shown up when they had been upstairs with Lestrade a few minutes before, informing him they had arrived and would go downstairs next.

"Since when does he texts you?"

"Since I informed him about what truly happened and he had a meltdown. He seems reluctant to make up for the part he has played in ruining my career temporarily."

John sighed but was pleased about the 'temporarily' since it showed a bit of positive thinking.

"Can we please change subjects? I am really still not to fond of him and right now I'd like to concentrate on _this_. " Sherlock continued. "Besides, maybe Lestrade just simply ordered him to inform me."

Sherlock's tone clearly showed he was only half listening, staring at the pictures of the cooled down fire while it was still on location at the church.

"Okay, I will go get some coffee."

Sherlock's head jerked up fully alert now. "No!"

"What?"

"You will not go and get coffee!"

"Why not?"

"I need you here."

"You will be able to do this without me for five minutes."

"No."

"Oh, come on, you'll go through every little bit of this rubbish, not asking me anything, ignoring me completely all the time. None is here, you can talk out loud without people wondering at all. Besides I am not really fond of the memories of this event. My presence is not really needed. … You will insult my inability to observe within five minutes. I want some coffee before enduring that."

"Fine." Sherlock stood up and closed the button of his jacket, then headed for the door.

"What are you doing?"

"I thought you wanted to get some coffee… so we are going to get coffee." Sherlock was obviously unnerved - and through the door before John knew what was happening. He reached for his wallet and followed Sherlock.

"What is this about."

"Can you remember _how_ you have been tied up."

John needed ten seconds to understand Sherlock meant before he was put in the bonfire.

"I think they never tied me up, they kept me out of it so there was no need. I was unable to move." John realized Sherlock was ignoring the theme from before on purpose. The detective knew that John's question had not been about this at all.

They returned with two large cups of coffee from a store nearby a few minutes later, Sherlock had refused to use the coffee vending machine in the hallway.

...

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_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. Feedback is very welcome._


	20. Chapter 20

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 20 **

**Thursday evening**

When they arrived home later they had found out exactly nothing. Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated with nothing coming up and no clues at all.

"What does he want now?" Sherlock murmured while unlocking the door.

"Pardon? Who?"

Sherlock didn't answered but climbed the stairs even more unenthusiastically than he had moved before.

John followed Sherlock into the living room, already thinking about what to cook for dinner.

"I'm too tired for this. Good evening Mycroft."

Before John had registered what was happening Sherlock had went to his room and closed the door.

Great, so it was his task to deal with Mycroft?

"You really got nerves showing up here. What do you want?"

"I wanted to see how my brother is. I was worried."

"What?" John felt his anger boil up.

The anger that had boiled inside of him for over two years now. He hadn't seen Mycroft since a month after the funeral when he came to the flat and explained to John that the rent was paid for the next year and that he needn't to worry. John had not spoken to him, but Mycroft had clearly seen he was near to burst with furiousness. So John had just turned his back and had retreated into his room. He had been so angry and lost and hurting back then he would have either punched him or tried to strangle him or was in danger of have a meltdown and none of those options would have been a good idea, so he went away, showing his disgust and how unwelcome Mycroft was that way, and Mycroft had understood.

"You really have nerves! Your inept performance with Moriarty was the reason all this happened!" He yelled now, starting to run up and down the living room to vent some of his agitation.

"He would never have been forced to fake his suicide if you hadn't … used Sherlock for your intrigues with Moriarty! You used him like a cheap pawn… "John ranted on. "I am not sure I any longer believe that you really worry about him, or that you care about him at all." John was shouting at the older Holmes now.

"He is having nightmares about you standing by watching when he was beaten and not helping him when he was tortured. How could you…. " John's voice left him, his rage robbing him of his speech. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Fighting his temper he stumbled backwards and then sat down heavily into his armchair.

Mycroft stood next to the coffee table, just stood there, not moving, leaning on his umbrella. He stared into the ground with the same expression on his face he had had in his study when John had confronted him about being the cause of Sherlock's dilemma shortly before the fall. That was when he had finally understood that Mycroft had been the one who had shared quite a lot of intimate information about his brother with Moriarty.

Mycroft had in fact been distressed with this confrontation, _his_ way of distressed, not ending sentences and grinding his teeth. This was similar, the doctor realized when he finally looked up after regaining his composure after a long silence.

Mycroft felt bad about it and he deserved it! And he deserved to be punched for not telling John that Sherlock was alive!

John blew out his breath and closed his eyes to collect himself and keep himself from sharing that last thought with the room or acting on the idea.

When he opened his eyes a few seconds later he saw - in the corner of his sight - Sherlock was standing in the hallway between his room and the kitchen. When he looked at him he found Sherlock was also looking to the ground.

"I am sorry, John." Mycroft spoke in a slow and low voice.

It made John speechless. He had was expected piercing and threatening remarks or assumed Mycroft would utter how embarrassing it was for John to have such an outbreak in front of him.

"What?" He whispered hoarsely.

"I am sure you understood me, but in case you need to hear it again I am willing to repeat myself. I am sorry."

John turned his face towards the windows and closed his eyes once more, concentrating on breathing and letting go of the anger.

Mycroft sounded as if he in fact was sorry and his body language transported the same message. John had never seen him like this. Damn it!

John couldn't believe it, this was almost spooky, two Holmes brothers staring wholes in the ground. Mycroft's shame was justified, but what was Sherlock doing?

"I need some air!" John stood up, fetched his jacket and was out the door fifteen seconds later.

.

An hour later he returned to the flat, hoping that Mycroft's precious time had run out and he had left, but he was disappointed.

Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock's armchair and sipping at some tea. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Sherlock?" John greeted the British government.

"He left, he did not share his destination."

John frowned.

"Why are you here?"

"I am worried…."

"Sure."

"…. about Sherlock. He is not what I would call his normal self."

"Yeah, and who's fault is that?"

"I am well aware of the mistakes I made, but no amount of my regret will change that Sherlock is a bit under the weather and I wanted to offer assistance in case you knew anything that might help make him better."

"Really?… " John slightly tilted his head to one side.

"I don't know what my brother told you, but it was not my fault he was tortured, if I hadn't gotten him out he would probably still be in there."

"What?"

"Oh, I see, he forgot to tell you he was caught leaving after…. Well, maybe he had his reasons…. It was quite a bit of work sneaking into the organisation and recovering him."

"Er,… could you start a bit more in the area of the beginning. What was he doing there?"

"Sorry, but this would take about six and a half hours to explain and I bet he would love to tell you the details of his heroic work himself…. Besides, I only know half of it, as you know my brother does not really like to share information with me on a regular basis, especially not in the past two years…. He is not only … difficult since his return, he has been quite tiring the past two years! We had several arguments and he switched back to some rather obnoxious behaviour patterns he had given up after meeting you. Him being depressed is nothing that has started in the past few weeks I wanted to point out."

"I…." John was a bit uncertain about that new piece of information.

"I have never seen him so … bad - with anything in his life - before…. I think I'd even call it… sick …. with distress. He has lost a lot of weight, not only because he didn't eat a lot, but at a certain point his body repeatedly refused to keep anything down. I couldn't convince him to see a doctor. After we fled Serbia he collapsed, due to exhaustion, malnutrition, and pain. Before I was even able to make him tell what exactly had happened. My private doctor took care of intravenous nutrition and kept him asleep for days, otherwise he'd probably …. well, he's better now. But the whole thing was a world-shattering experience for him. I was worried 24/7 that he might start to take drugs again. He started smoking though…. I hoped the danger had passed when he moved back in here. I think the only thing that kept him going the past two years was to know that he had saved you and the others, and that one day he would come back." Mycroft informed, now his usual self again.

"Sorry, but I need some more information. You went in there to get him out?"

"Well, yeah. I needed him back in London. I could not let him continue with his _holiday_ while there was a threat of a terrorist attack on London, could I?"

"Holiday?… He was tortured for god's sake!"

"Yeah, he was kind of an inadvertence. He went into the lion's den and although he managed to fulfil what he had come for they spotted him on the way out."

"What does that mean?"

"He broke in and they nabbed him."

"And you got word he was caught."

"Kind of."

"Why didn't you get him out immediately."

"I got him out as fast as possible without causing international tensions that might cause a war."

"What?"

"I did it as fast as I could, but gaining the trust of those men wasn't exactly the easiest thing I've ever done."

"You watched him being tortured!" John suddenly yelled again, but Mycroft was much to professional to flinch this time.

"I have to admit - to my regret – that I needed to in order to get us both out safely. Please try not to punch me, John. I did my very best to watch out for my little brother but he quite frequently kept me out of the loop, too, and as you might know it is not always easy to find him if he doesn't want to be _disturbed_." Mycroft paused.

"Go on."

"I know I shouldn't have let him get into a situation like that, but he ignored my objections.

To be honest it was quite a bit of stress I endured watching him being treated like that, and it somehow… hurt me to do so, but if I had blown that cover by interfering to early we both would be dead by now, and I figured this would do none of the three of us any good."

"Three?"

"You, me and Sherlock."

"I am sorry I didn't take better care of him. I tried to get him out sooner, but it was impossible."

John pinched the back of his nose, a bit lost for words.

Mycroft's phone chirped and the older man read it immediately.

"I have to go. If you or Sherlock happen to need anything do not hesitate inform me."

With that he was out of the door.

John stood in the middle of the living room, not knowing what to think. Had Mycroft really just spilled his guts in front of him? And where the hell had Sherlock gone?

Exactly five minutes after the door had closed behind Mycroft John heard keys in the lock.

He was making tea and had just decided he was not eager to cook and that he would make some sandwiches.

Sherlock entered the kitchen without a word and headed for his room without getting rid of his coat first.

"Where have you been?" John asked carefully.

"Following you having a walk." Sherlock answered in a tone that told him he should have known because it was the only logical course of action.

John rolled his eyes. Of course he had, where else would he go.

Sherlock closed his door after himself and John stood there, narrowing his eyes in understanding. He had registered before Sherlock had barely left him out of sight during the past week, but during the last few days it had either become more obvious or had intensified. Today it had been… foreboding.

"I will make some sandwiches, want to watch some telly?"

He was ignored.

Sherlock didn't show up for the rest of the evening, but when John re-entered the kitchen - after the documentary he had watched was finished and after he had called Mary - he saw the door to Sherlock's room was no longer closed tight but ajar. The room behind it was dark and John hoped Sherlock was getting some sleep, he definitely needed it.

….

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_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. Feedback is very welcome._


	21. Chapter 21

**_Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability_**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Thanks to all the great and kind readers who take their time to leave a review for me. _

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**Chapter 21**

**Friday**

John woke up, when a text message arrived. It was half past nine.

'You two are up to see some possible new crime scenes?' Lestrade asked. John asked himself why Lestrade now texted him about it, but only for a second. Of course the DI wanted to know how they were before starting something. Sherlock would not like this.

'Please call him in. JW' John answered, then decided to nap a bit longer.

Unexpected stress woke John when Sherlock stormed into his bedroom, then shaking him awake. He was kind and careful, but urging him repeatedly. When John reacted to slow he started to search through his bag for clothes.

"Sherlock, get out. I can dress myself!" He yelled half joking half in real distress, kind of delighted and disturbed by the thing.

But Sherlock flinched and stopped immediately. In fact he looked kind of ashamed, it was actually a bit funny. He had seldom seen Sherlock ashamed, and even then he had more said that he was than looked like it.

The next moment the detective fled the room. John frowned, before the fall Sherlock wouldn't even have stopped, let alone being impressed by him yelling. But John had told him repeatedly not to just storm in, that it'd be appropriate to knock at the door and wait for an answer, well, obviously that interaction-rule had been deleted…. and the understanding-jokes-routine was obviously also gone… or had he sounded _really_ angry?

He was frustrated, in fact it reminded him just so much of the early version of Sherlock that he had liked it to be woken like that - a bit.

.

Sherlock realized his behaviour was rude when John yelled. Immediate retreat. He hurried to get out.

John was angry, he had probably stepped over a boundary, but which one?

Seeing John sleep… no, John was usually not shy about sleeping…

Roused to early?… John had slept almost eight hours…

Stepping into his room?… He had knocked and when there was no movement he became nervous something had happened to John… and he had stepped in.

He should make tea, counteracting bad manners with good ones…

Sherlock started the kettle. This was unsettling. Why? He was eager to get to the crime scene….. had wanted to tell John the things he had figured out during the night – wrong term, he needed _him_ to listen, now that he had him back.

He had found at least three theses of how to …. But John was not as eager to listen to him as he had been in the past… and was not praising his deductions any longer. He had missed it for so long to hear John say he was doing good work, but although John was back he didn't say it any longer. This was the feeling of a child, when had he become so dependent on human affirmative responses. He felt more ashamed to have longed for them. Stop it!

The distance that John kept was irritating… not nice.. or was it made by himself? John had told him he was the one who was trying to stand clear, as in not opening up and not sharing information or thoughts…. and now he wanted to share and John didn't want to listen.

Uh, he was an idiot, this was different. Sharing information about his deductions for a case and sharing his thoughts and sensations about himself were different classifications of information, he had mixed them up. But why was John more eager about the one than the other? Right, the one was work and the other one was personal … stuff. He had been sloppy tagging things right and several parts of the databases had gone to pot during the past two years, especially those about interaction with people he wanted around. They weren't there and the taste of their absence had a nasty mint green tinge, which he had tried to avoid to sense, it was just to frustrating to sense it. So the databases had attached temp-folders, a dump of collected information that had not been sorted correctly. The whole databases collection had never been in so much disarray ever before in his life.

Usually being rejected didn't concern Sherlock much… it had been his state of being for too many years of his life, kind of an normal status…. Then there was John… it was different, he had classified the term new after he had known John for a few months, made new database for John, because John's differences to normal people were to big to be integrated in the normal databases.*

Why had this little interaction made him so uneasy? He _needed_ to keep John… The thought kind of hurt since the moment he had seen the stake of wood being ignited.

Making John angry so that he'd leave would be not an option. In the past there were no possible bad scenarios that played out in his mind as consequences of bad interaction. He just hadn't had those… he had nothing to lose. Now they were there, and they mattered, and decisions were made because of them… He was ….. afraid of this group of themes, they were still so new and complex…. Human interaction on a whole new level….

To lose John again had turned into a personal horror scenario. When he had dragged him out of the fire the feeling had been paralyzing, irritating, unsettling… must have been fear, then. He knew it was. He had not known if John was already dead or just unconscious.

The idea that they might have been too late had made him nauseous, even in hindsight it still did. When John had opened his eyes while Sherlock was feeling for his pulse he had a hard time to keep himself upright. He was glad he had been kneeling, otherwise he'd have fallen to his knees. He had quite a share of being afraid of losing his presence again in the past two weeks, but the worst was in the underground train compartment…. it had hit him hard when he realized John might die from the bomb. John would hate Sherlock for coming back and killing his future that way….

Then the relief to be forgiven… the wave of emotions was still uncomfortable present in his head.

He had cared for John's well-being for years, nevertheless it was still kind of irritatingly new, like new shoes… Feel care felt odd, not uncomfortable or bad, in fact he liked exploring new things, but relationships had been not nice to explore – until John. John had made it easier, he explained, he was patient, he did not avenged on Sherlock when he did not understood human nature, he did not make fun of him, and he said what he thought, not holding back, not acting with fury, anger sometimes, but he was never mean, other people were.

He could not lose John again…. racing to the fire to get John out and see the stack burning had burned something his mind, the area was sore and up to now had not healed a bit.

It had been a shock how frightened and stressed he had felt when he realized John was in the heap of wood.

John being taken had been absolutely out of the blue. Who had known Sherlock was back? They had probably wanted to hurt him by taking John, but who knew? This was much to familiar… someone playing games like that, use one to get to the other. What if Moriarty had faked his death, too?

No, couldn't be! He was dead… Sherlock should have inspected the weapon for tricks and the corpse for a real hole in the head. Dumb! But his thoughts had been somewhere else at that moment. Pressure crept over his chest, making breathing more work.

"Hey…?" John's voice was soft and low. Sherlock jerked back to reality.

He stood in front of the kettle, which was boiling hard. Before the automatic switched it off John did, then turned back to the detective.

"You're okay?" John's eyes scanned him.

He turned away. "Fine." He felt naked with his thoughts so close to the surface.

"Sherlock, tell me…. I'm sorry, I yelled. It was not _really_ that bad… I was startled awake and trying to come to my senses … I didn't mean to be rude… Remember, that when you are roused like this as a soldier, it usually means something really bad is happening. It send my adrenaline pumping… please only do that if you or someone else is in immediate need for medical attention or something really threatening is happening.

Sherlock still tried to come back to reality, though John's apology was kind or so, but something else felt still 'off'.

When his eyes met John's he realized this fact had not escaped the eyes of the doctor, who now switched into some other mode. With one hand he turned a chair and with the other carefully dragged Sherlock towards it.

"Sit, I'll make tea." But John stood beside him instead of doing it and Sherlock could feel his gaze on him. "Tell me where your mind has just been… in which memories were you wandering?" Voice casual, faked.

Would John make his threat true and leave if he didn't tell him? He had said he would not leave. Sherlock's first impulse was to overplay this with a joke or laughing at something but… John would be angry if he'd bring this into derision.

Since when was he so inhibited?

"Sherlock? Where?" John sounded kind, understanding but ordering.

"Bonfire." Sherlock admitted and watched John's reaction.

"Okay, what aspect?"

Sherlock hesitated, unsure what John wanted to know.

"What moment of the events exactly?" John elaborated.

"Realizing you were inside. Jumping off the bike, running to the fire, not seeing you, dragging you out."

"That was quite bad." John sat down opposite on the other chair. "Were you reliving the thing or analyzing aspects of the events?"

"Analyzing."

"What did you deduce?" Would John have used the word 'feel' instead of 'deduce' with any other person than him?

Sherlock wanted to do something else than talk about this… anything else was okay. But before he was able to stand up John had foreseen his action, his hand got hold of his upper arm.

"What aspect?"

"The Mindpalace… it got…. There's damage…. "

Sherlock saw a hint of ….. consternation or something on John's face, or maybe nervousness? He had said the wrong thing. 'Keep this quiet' he tagged the theme.

"Sherlock, look at me? Don't shut the door in my face, come on. What kind of damage?"

Sherlock shook his head. Keep this quiet.

"Have you slept tonight?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"How many hours did you sleep last night?"

"Nil."

Sherlock could see in John's face he had hoped he did and was disappointed.

"And the night before?"

"Two on the sofa while you were …. shopping." Shame for being caught in the act of dreaming accompanied that information. He realized his mode of speaking had changed into _sharpening consonants_. Not good, to much emotion transported and displayed by that.

"Bet that was not really sleep, wasn't it?"

Damn tags. He should try to mute them, but he had tried so often in the past two years, where was the use in try it again?

Sherlock did not see the need to answer that.

"You did not eat at all yesterday."

"Had a coffee." Sherlock disagreed.

"Hff, that still does not classify as eating."

John fetched the meds and the vitamins and Sherlock took them with a sip of water that John also offered.

"You are trying to work yourself into total exhaustion?"

Was he?

John didn't seem to expect an answer. "Okay, so we will carefully get some nourishment into you today." John threatened.

Great! That theme again. He was not hungry, his stomach was uneasy enough, eating would be nasty. Why didn't John get that? Eating would make him so much worse.

"Here."

A cup of tea appeared in front of his face. But instead of the nice smell of earl grey or something decent it …. eh… chamomile.

"You can have some nice tea after this one is gone."

John had switched to doctor mode. Sherlock nose sniffed at the tea without him having it ordered to do so. His mind scrunched up it's nose at his nose's autonomy. Sherlock rolled his eyes about his nose and John's idea of caring for his stomach.

.

They arrived at SY half an hour later and Lestrade surprised them with the fact that three missing persons had been reported last night. Since the time distance to the last victim was right Lestrade feared that one of the persons was indeed taken by their serial killer.

"This one looks as if it fits into our suspect's typical prey-profile." Lestrade pointed towards one of the files open on his desk.

In the back of the room Donovan waited and looked uneasy.

Sherlock sat down and started studying the files.

"I have some other things to do, guys. Let me know when you're finished."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"We have a suspect in another case, I need to observe the interview." The DI informed and headed for the door.

"You are sure it's a good idea to leave them here, in your office, alone?" Sally bickered.

"Yeah, Sally. Leave it alone." Lestrade gently jostled her out of the room.

"Read the file of the women." Sherlock ordered.

"Oh, sure." John sat down, too and started reading.

.

Another half hour later they had both read all three files, not that there was much in them, yet.

Sherlock opened the office door when Anderson passed by.

"Where is Lestrade?"

"Down the hall. Stay here, I will see if he is finished." Anderson offered and Sherlock saw John raising his brows, probably because Anderson was kind fo friendly.

Five minutes later Sherlock had went through Lestrade's desk out of boredom and John had nagged him how dumb that was, when the DI entered his office.

"Went through my desk already?" He asked and Sherlock nodded.

"I was bored…. I want to see the three flats!" Sherlock stated without introduction.

Lestrade hesitated a moment but then agreed.

"Okay, I will join you. I have a team who is ready to keep the most likely victim's flat under surveillance."

"Why not all three?" John asked.

"Not enough resources, there is a really big smuggling thing going on and most of the men are busy with that one. The superintendent was sure it would be possible to figure out the most likely victim easily. So I need to make a decision which one it will be and that is one of the reasons you are here. To tell me which one you think is most likely the right one."

"Why ask us when the decision has already been made?"

"How do you know that?" Lestrade asked.

"Shit." John muttered.

"Well, the decision is not made finally, but they are pretty sure which one they want to surveil, it's …."

"The veterinary student." Sherlock stated.

"… the bank clerk." Lestrade finished simultaneously.

"Great!" The DI rubbed his hand over his face and sat down at his desk. "So I have two options here, going against the choices of my team and the superintendent, who by the way is a strong supporter of the 'bank clerk' idea or listen to you."

"That's ridiculous." John insisted. "How can they confront you with such an decision and why does the superintendent has anything to say in this? "

"Well, the superintendent has his own view of how things are supposed to work. I tried to explain to him that I don't want to make this decision, but…. Well, he didn't listen…."

"Tell us why, Sherlock?" John wanted to hear the reasons for the choice.

"Yeah, please." Lestrade added.

Sherlock stood up. "Will try to after I have seen the flats."

"Okay." Lestrade agreed and fetched his car keys.

The first flat they inspected was the one of a young woman, Isabella Marren, she was last seen two days ago. After only six minutes in the flat – John had looked at his watch – Sherlock informed them that she is fine and with her parents.

"What makes you think that?" Lestrade asked.

"Which team was here before?"

"Hm…" Lestrade made, knowing there were insults ahead.

"Fire them, they are idiots."

Sherlock fetched the landline phone and pressed redial and then switched on the speaker. They heard it rang on the other side.

"Who's there?" A young woman answered.

"This is Sherlock Holmes and who are you?"

"Why are you using that phone? It's not yours."

"I assume you are Isabella then, and you saw your own number calling?"

"Why are you there?" She sounded distressed and her voice was trembling.

"For gods sake, tell her we are the police." Lestrade ordered.

"I am not the police, as I have been told repeatedly." Sherlock said.

"I will call the police." The young woman said.

"No need, they are already here. You are Isabella and you are at your parent's house?"

"Why….? What are you doing in my flat?"

"You were reported missing by your neighbour and since even your friends didn't know where you were and you didn't come back they finally reported you missing last night."

"Oh…. I.."

"Your father had a heart attack and you went right home to your parents house and with all the stress and sitting at the hospital your forgot to tell anyone…. and you forgot your phone's charger in your flat. Since you are a student at the University of London and you work only Monday and Tuesday none there missed you, yet."

"I … yes." She stammered, John could hear her shock and the stress in her voice.

"Give me the phone." Lestrade held out his hand and Sherlock handed it over.

"Miss Marren, I am Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, take care of your family. We will leave your flat soon. Where are you now?"

"At my parents house in Weymouth."

"Okay."

"Please can call me later today at Scotland Yard to get things in order and I will give you the details. I assume you need some time to recover a bit from this. And please inform your friends, they are really worried."

"What was your name again?" She stuttered.

"Lestrade."

"Yeah, of course. I am sorry to have caused so much trouble."

"It's okay, things like these happen. We are glad to find you are okay. Hope your father gets well soon."

"Thanks, bye."

Lestrade put the receiver back on the phone and they stood there for a moment in silence.

"Good, very good." John just stated, wanting to carefully praise Sherlock's abilities, he hadn't done that in a long time and it felt good.

"Okay, who's next?" Sherlock turned away and headed for the door.

"We will wait downstairs." John went after him.

"Jap, I will lock the place, be there in a minute." Lestrade sighed.

….

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A/N:

_* See 'Lessons in Friendship 1', 'Lessons in Friendship 5', and 'Handle with care' Chapter 13, for more detailed explanation how I think Sherlock's databases work._

_Please review._


	22. Chapter 22

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

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**Chapter 22**

**Friday afternoon**

They drove to the second flat, which was in the north-western area of London.

Sherlock didn't say a single word during the ride and finally John asked.

"Will you explain how you deduced that?"

"I'm sure it's quite obvious."

"Do it anyway, please."

"Phone charger on the table with things a person grabs before leaving, nowhere near a wall socket. Why would she put it there? She wanted to take it somewhere but finally forgot it. Work schedule on the fridge, university schedule there, too. Address of hospital on a sheet of paper on the nightstand, she was called by relatives in the middle of the night, close relatives, otherwise they'd waited until morning. She wrote the hospital's name down but forgot the sheet when she left, too. Quite a sloppy and messy character, as one can clearly see in every aspect of her flat, not draggled and clean though, chaotic person. Room number also on the note, cardiology ward at the local hospital."

"What? How do you know that the number in on that ward?" Lestrade looked as if he did not believe a single word.

"Been there with my mother visiting a relative when I was seven. He died soon after that, heart attack"

"Oh… sorry." Lestrade looked into the rear-vision mirror in the windscreen, he was driving and John and Sherlock were both in the back.

"Press re-dial was a blind-shot, though. Chances were high she had spoken to someone completely different than her parents since she was roused by her mother at night. But since she was a sloppily character she might have called her mother back right after they had hang up because she had forgotten something she needed to ask, or maybe it was not being sloppy but being stressed out with her father's health that made her forget vital things."

"Okay, good work." Lestrade praised.

"Oh, please!" Sherlock's tone indicated more than a little disgust. "Do not do that when the things are this easy, it's insulting. I am not a child in need for cheap praise."

They spent the rest of the ride in silence.

.

The second and third flat were not that easy.

Everything looked as if the inhabitants had just left for work or other normal every day activities, nothing out of the ordinary.

Sherlock searched thoroughly for any clues at all without speaking.

A long time later they were back in Lestrade's car. Sherlock still kept his mouth shut and finally Lestrade decided to ask right away.

"So which one would you put under surveillance?"

"The veterinary student."

"You said that before we saw the places. New information, stubbornness or what your guts tells you?"

"I never do what my gut tells me." Sherlock stated with a tinge of offence in his tone.

"Oh yes, you do!" John disagreed. "And I have to admit I trust your hunches more than some people's facts!"

"What?" Sherlock screw up his nose in disbelieve. "I don't have hunches, I never guess. I observe!"

"So which observation convinced you it was the student?"

"Location. Her flat is in a location where none else can easily peer inside the windows from the outside, top floor and all…. In contrast to the clerk's flat at least, which is first floor and surrounded by other buildings. The student's flat is also equipped with window blinds and the other buildings are more than ten meters away. Most of the clerk's flat's walls are not even three meters away from the adjacent buildings, the space is barely large enough for driveways to the backyard buildings, crowded area, not uncommon for this part of the city. The unshielded windows can be peered into from six to eight of the neighbouring flats, the house has no blindings on the outside. The curtains are cheap and almost useless in the dark when there is light on inside." Sherlock explained. "Though I wonder why a veterinary student can afford a flat in that area of London without sharing and the clerk lives in these…. humble surroundings."

"But are there any information that contradicts the facts the forensics team and that I therefore can use as a point?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"Not besides the one I just explained, and that I think is fairly a strong fact."

"Not for the superintendent." Lestrade muttered, regret in his voice. "Blimey… what do I do now?"  
"It's quite obvious I think." Sherlock stated. "You monitor the flat of the clerk and John and I the one of the veterinary student."

"You know a good restaurant nearby?" John asked jokingly.

"No, we will use your car. I've never before did surveillance from a car, could be fun." Sherlock put on an exaggerated grin.

"You mean like in a cheap American FBI-movie?" John teased.

"Always wanted to do that!" Sherlock stated, sounding like an excited child. "We can eat in the car and read boring novels and …"

Lestrade laughed out loud about the silliness and John rolled his eyes. Well, if there was the slightest chance this would entertain Sherlock and make him happy John would do it.

"… listen to country music radio stations."

"Okay." John agreed. "Sounds like a plan…. Wait, you hate country music! How about some violin concert music stations instead?"

"Don't be ridiculous, there are no violin music stations, John!"

"You know what I mean, classic music stations, then."

"Hmmm…."

"Where is you violin by the way?" John asked, reminded of the theme by this.

"In the flat, where else would it be?" Sherlock stated while he felt John's intense gaze on his profile.

"I don't know. I haven't seen it in a while."

"Why do you ask?" Sherlock turned his head an looked directly into John's eyes, observing every single reaction.

"Just curious." John stated. "So is this official or are we doing this…" he tried to change the topic, clearly aware Sherlock was kind of agitated with the theme.

"You better not tell a single soul!" Lestrade hurried to inform.

"Okay…." John assured.

.

**Saturday**

**Early morning**

John and Sherlock indeed spend the whole night across the street from the veterinary student's flat. Nothing happened, none came, none left, none even neared the door. They were more than bored in the end.

In the early hours of the morning John and Sherlock returned to the flat, exhausted, drained and unnerved.

Sherlock ran up and down the living room citing facts about the case merely two minutes after their arrival.

"Sherlock, you are no use to the victim if you work yourself into total exhaustion here. Go get some rest and tomorrow… eh, later today we will re-evaluate the stuff together. Come on."

John had fetched Sherlock's meds and offered them to him.

"I am not in the mood. Go away."

"Sherlock, this has nothing to do with mood! You need to take the damn antibiotics!" John grumbled after following Sherlock through the flat for almost six minutes. He cursed Sherlock's stubbornness once more.

"Go away."

John stopped suddenly, Sherlock had just handed him a pressure point. John hesitated to use it at first but then decided to be a bit reckless. "You really want me to go?" John asked loudly.

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, he seemed to only now understanding the phrase he had used unconsciously. John saw him tense up.

"No?" Sherlock stated, hesitating at fist. "No." He repeated.

"Okay, okay." John sensed the distress building up between them. "Sherlock, why don't you fetch the violin and play a bit. It would do us both good. You always said it helps you think and I … I kind of miss it. Play for us …." John tried to encourage him. He really longed to hear it again.

"No." Sherlock shook his head, sounding now more distressed than anything else.

"Why not?" John tried to keep his tone as friendly and encouraging as he could.

"No." Sherlock breathed.

John eyed him closely. Not good! Sherlock's breathing was speeding up.

"What is it?" John asked slowly.

"NO! Leave me alone!" Sherlock turned away, heading to his room.

Sherlock tried to reach the bedroom to hide his rising distress.

"What's happening?" John followed him.

.

Dammit! Sherlock felt it coming.

Gasping… he knew he was pathetic and he definitely did not wanted to be seen like this. Escape to his bedroom, now!

He spinned down a void, trying to stop the fall he knew was coming.

"Oh for god's sake, leave me alone for a bit."

He was breathing through his teeth now, trying to calm down.

It didn't work. Something seemed to slow his legs down, made his breathing harder…. Time changed pace.

"Sherlock,… just tell me what you are experiencing…." John followed him down the hall.

John would not let this go until he knew what was happening Sherlock realized. So he tried. "Nothing that was …. is certain any longer. Unreal." He breathed.

"Slow down, come on, sit down."

Where? On the floor? The floor seemed to vanish beneath him…. Everything was in danger to be just gone. What is living, John?…. Feels so unreal… like life is an illusion.

"All those people do their every day life are just faking reality, there is nothing but cool space and I … nothing is real any longer. How can they believe joy exists….. and what makes them believe it is real….? It's just an illusion for those that are easy to take into the lie. There is nothing but devastation and shattered illusions once you have insight in what life is really is…. Nothing to loose any longer.. I can't do this …. I can't…" Sherlock stopped in his doorway.

"Sherlock, you are scaring me." John was right behind him… an anchor in the dark. "I … no wait… I think I know what you mean…. Your life feels like that at the moment, right?… I am with you… I know how this feels…. I know there is the constant question of what reality is… It is a really perilous place… but that doesn't matter right now, you just need to stay with me… just keep going… Relax, and let me make decisions for awhile…. Just let go…. I will manage.… Easy."

"No. Go away." Sherlock turned around and blocked the door to his room by putting his hands on the wooden frame, trying to get his breathing under control.

Was this the only way to preserve his sanity right now? This was probably a panic attack, and he knew John knows the feeling. Should he go with it?

"You need to breathe, Sherlock." John ordered, reaching for his shoulder but Sherlock did a step back to avoid the touch.

"Just calm down…." John raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"You…. why…. you are…. What for?" Sherlock frowned.

"It's normal to have panic attacks after what you have been through. Just tell me what happens. This feels ugly, I know, but it will pass, and we just need to wait until it does."

"…. connection getting thinner and thinner by the minute… I … John … please don't go if I …. If I … this is embracing…..."

On one hand he wished the world would just go away, the hurt to end and on the other one…. no not feeling anything any more… no hurt, no embarrassment, nothing sounded like dying…. Surrendering would mean death. The feeling of drowning became more intense.

But then something happened… something he wasn't expecting.

"Sherlock… I need you to rest. You have been on your feet for two days. Sit down on the bed."

"No… no lying down!" Sherlock felt the distress blossom.

"It's okay. You don't need to lie down, just sit for a moment."

Sherlock sat down on the mattress, indeed, he felt a dizzy and shaky.

"First… You need to trust me and let me help. Breathe slowly and regularly."

Sherlock did, John's hand hovered over his shoulder, the almost touch felt like an anchor to reality.

"Good." John sighted…"Can I touch you?" What was that question about?

"No." The pure idea made him feel a distant struggle wind up his spine, silvery and painful.  
"I know you are feeling quite bad, but just ignore it….. for now." John suggested.

Sherlock did not react, did not do anything.

"Okay, where is it?"

"Where is what?" Sherlock's face was a mask.

"The violin, where is it?"

"What do you want her for?" Sherlock was starting to worry now.

"What does one usually uses a violin for?" John's tone was pressing and Sherlock felt something not recognizable hushed over the other man's face.

"You can't play, so what for?" Sherlock felt anxious…. What would John do? He seemed angry again.

"I won't try to play it." John assured and headed for Sherlock's closet, that must have been where he had last seen it.

The detective stood up on shaky legs and blocked the closet door with his hands, alarmed. What did John want with the instrument? Hurt her? Hide her? He felt the urge to protect that fragile work of art from any anger…. And John seemed a bit angry now…. or something that felt negative at least…. Maybe he was just stressed out with Sherlock's distress?

John pushed past him, looking around the room, he was glad he had hidden her under the bed, but the relief was short-lived. John rounded the bed and looked there first.

Too obvious, he needed a better safe place for her. John took the case out and put it on the bed, before Sherlock could interfere.  
The doctor snapped the case open and Sherlock's blood froze when John reached in and he feared she could get harmed.

John was agitated, but when his fingers took the small wooden instrument out of the case they were skilful… the hands that had repaired fragile arteries and sewn muscles…. they were just holding her.

Sherlock's didn't dare to move, John had her horizontal on both hands and stepped around the bed. The consternation must have been written all over his face because John's expression softened and he spoke in a soothing voice.

"It's okay, I will just hold it…."

"Her." Sherlock whispered.

"What?" John sat down on the foot of the bed.

"This violin is female… so it's 'her'." Sherlock explained

"As you like." John just sat there, just holding her carefully.

The memory of another scene with John, leaned against the headboard of his bed, the violin in his outstretched hand and on the bed next to him….. and John's gun, lying next to the violin…. The picture hit him like a thunderbolt.

John had clearly been crying. Sherlock felt the same nausea creep back into him he had felt when he had first seen the surveillance camera's footage about two and a half weeks ago. He felt suddenly cold and it was harder to breathe again, he did a step backwards. The intensity of the memory quite a shock.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

He could not tell John he had seen it, no chance.

"Sherlock, talk to me!" John stood up and Sherlock did another step back, hit the wall with his back.

"What spooked you, now?" John asked kindly. Sherlock just shook his head, he felt dizzy, his back hurt, his throat hurt, his head hurt.

"Sherlock, you are worrying me….." John held out the instrument, offering it to him.

"…Play."

Sherlock leaned against the wall heavily, fighting the unsettling sensation that threatened to overwhelm him slowly.

A moment later a sharp pain in his tailbone made him wince. He had slid down the wall…. embarrassing!

He blinked, disoriented, and saw John place the violin back into the case with the greatest care, then stepped over to him.

The doctor crouched down in front of him, a kind expression on his face.

"Sherlock, what's going on?… What is it?…. Talk to me."

Stunned and still in panic mode Sherlock thought about answering but his mind was blank… except for the wish that this would stop…. Just stop!

"Don't…." he pressed out, distantly feeling his hands shake on the ground next to him.

John reached out, slowly picking up his right from the floor and feeling his pulse. Sherlock let it happen, suddenly to exhausted to move. John's movements were calm and steady, a sharp contrast to the swirling colourful chaos his mind was.

"It's alright, I just wanted you to play." John muttered. Everything felt really heavy right now and John's speech seemed much too slow.

"No need to panic….. Sherlock, are you about to pass out on me?" John asked and Sherlock could clearly sense he had just switched into doctor mode. Concern was now visible on his face, his voice full of suppressed worry and false calmness.

How could he come to such an absurd idea?

"No!" he had intended to make the absurdity of the question quite clear with a strong voice, but instead it came out as a hoarse croak.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to cause you any distress by touching her inappropriately… I just longed to hear you play and I thought it would help you calm down…. and …. easy.. easy…." John caught his hand that was fumbling for something to hoist himself up with.

Was he looking _so_ distressed that John felt the need to comfort him? Indeed he felt utterly miserable and…

"Sherlock, you need to lie down. Now."

No, he definitely did _not_ want to do that!

A sick feeling intensified and before he knew what was happening he felt John's steady hand slide around his neck and then it cupped the back of his head, another hand appeared under his armpit.

What was that supposed to mean?

He was slowly tilted sideways and lowered down. Nononono… no…

Black sports started to appear in his field of vision and before he had time to struggle against the foreign movement, his breathing got a lot harder to accomplish.

Heat press onto him from all directions, mind and body.

A distant touch of a hand on his head.

He was suddenly wet with cold and old biting sweat.

He was on the floor, his jaw clenched.

"Easy… Shhh … easy…."

Was the last he heard - the last he recognized - before he greyed out.

….

* * *

….

A/N:

_Thanks for reading. _

_Please let me know what you think. _

_Constructive criticism welcome._


	23. Chapter 23

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Not mine, as everyone here should know._

**_Trigger warning_**_: some suicidal thoughts ahead, don't read if this there's a chance this might trigger you._

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**_Oh, guys, I am once more absolutely overwhelmed with your feedback and your encouraging words. You're great, thank you! :´)_**

** .**

_Since we are here with violins and emotions and stuff: last week I found a youtube video with an overwhelming violin interpretation of a modern song while looking for other stuff (always get sidetracked there)._

_The playing is great and overwhelming and it sounds as if there someone put his heart in that violin … it's really intense. I love it. _

_I failed to find a video that shows the real person actually playing it, if someone does, please tell me._

_Well, just listen to it, it's worth it. Seek for: 'Your love is my drug – Sherlock'_

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**Chapter 23**

**Saturday late morning**

John was watching Sherlock's unmoving form.

Sherlock had just slipped into sleep a few moments before, finally. The last half hour had been dreadful.

Sherlock had collapsed in the middle of a panic attack. What had caused it? Something had started it before they entered the bedroom and then something else had happened that had kicked him into shutdown a short time later. He seemed overwhelmed with a storm of emotions and his inability to deal with them, the distress was too much on the already exhausted man.

When Sherlock had staggered back towards the wall and leaned against it John had made a full stop. This was not like Sherlock. Sherlock did not lean against things. He seemed disoriented with some onslaught only he could see.

When Sherlock slid down the wall, agony on his face, which was also totally not like the detective… he usually was very good in hiding pain or distress, but this, this seemed to have racked him physically or mentally, John was not sure…. And the worry about this being visible on the outside made John switch into professional high alert-mode.

The moment Sherlock's face had paled and John saw the syncope coming he had carefully manhandled him into a supine position. Sherlock's eyes had rolled back seconds later. The doctor had provided first aid, had raised his legs and monitored his vitals constantly. He only left him alone for a few seconds when he sprinted to get his meds, and his emergency medical bag.

When Sherlock had not regained consciousness after four minutes he decided to call an ambulance if he could not wake him within the next two minutes. Finally John rubbed his knuckles over the other man's sternum, it was not the nicest way to make someone react but this took too long. Sherlock had opened disoriented eyes and was still kind of distressed, John doubted he would remember later. The doctor then carefully and gently poured some more of his anti-anxiety emergency medication and some sweet isotonic drink down Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock had calmed down a few minutes later, now with a staple of blankets under and around him, and several pillows to make him more comfortable on the ground. John doubted they would make it to the bed without injuries and there was no way he could lift Sherlock on his own. Sherlock was still not fully aware and dizzy.

When the doctor had finally managed to make him relax and Sherlock had slipped into sleep, he was not surprise that it turned out to be a restless sleep and John doubted it would be long until he had to wake the other man because of the nightmares.

At least right now he was not moving and John wondered what he could do to help Sherlock… what could possibly soothe this particular individual? Despite all their time together and all the injuries John was not sure about anything any longer, so much had changed. Damnit! How could he make this….?

"John?"

The doctor jerked around, gasping with surprise and half on his feet when he recognized the intruder.

"Mycroft? Can't you knock?"

"What happened?" Mycroft sounded actually stressed and uneasy. His voice was low.

"Mother of all panic attacks…. He passed out from the stress, vasovagal reflex."

"I see."

"Why are you here?" John whispered while he stood up.

"I …. was informed …."

"Yeah? …. Of what?.." John was in front of Mycroft now, dishevelled and trying to get a grip on the fright the latest surprise had caused on top of the other two before. "Could you be a bit more precise?"

"I…. saw him collapse and I came to see if he is alright." John ushered him out of the room and left the door ajar.

"What?" John barked as soon as they were in the living room and the words had sunken in.

"I am sure you are aware his bedroom is under surveillance."

"I was not! How can you disturb his privacy like this?… How dare you…?"

"There is nothing my brother needs privacy for and besides, if he wanted the equipment gone it would have been stamped on two years ago."

"Fuck! Are you telling me that room has been under constant surveillance since…."

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying… since Moriarty broke into the crown jewel vault to be precise… until you finally moved out…. reactivated when Sherlock moved back in."

"Oh god…." John moaned, sitting down heavily in his chair. He was well aware of the horrible nights he had spend in Sherlock's room in the weeks after his demise.

Had Mycroft seen him in there? Vulnerable? Crying? Desperate? John suddenly felt really ashamed when he remembered even more weaker moments he had gone through in that room, one in particular he had hoped to be able to forget forever.

"You…?"

"I am sorry, Dr Watson, but I have to admit the answer is 'yes'."

"What?"

"I indeed saw every single moment which you spent inside that room." Mycroft revealed, a hint of compunction in his voice.

"Shit!…. Shit…. Oh god…" John buried his face in his hands. This was _so_ not good!

"To be honest I was worried, but Sherlock was against putting a device in your room, so there were only two, one in the living room and one in his room, in addition of course to those that were put there by other parties."

"You had this flat under surveillance the whole time!" John yelled.

"I am sure that keeping eyes on you two is nothing new. As I said: I was worried… and, let me say it this way, if it saved Sherlock's life that I saw him overdosing on drugs and was able to prevent his death by interfering in time due to the devices, you would be grateful for them. You'd think they were worth the interruption of privacy, wouldn't you? What makes you think it is different the other way round? They are here to protect you, and they did."

"What? They did? When?"

"Never mind. I came here to find out how my brother is, but due to the fact that we are here discussing nonsense he can't be that bad, right? Explain what happened."

"Something trigged a panic attack, he passed out, I gave him some meds, he is sleeping now. I plan to monitor his condition closely and I am trying to figure out how to help him."

"Oh, now that you mention it, he had a …. panic attack or …. something a few days before he jumped on you in the restaurant." Mycroft headed for Sherlock's room.

"Wait."

Mycroft stopped. "I want to see him, I will explain in more detail after I have."

Mycroft went into the room and knelt down next to Sherlock. He scanned the room and his restless sleeping brother. Sherlock was on top of several blankets and now on his right side, with his feet towards the door, his breathing was still a bit too fast and shallow but he was clearly asleep.

The next moment John raised his eyebrows when Mycroft stroked the hair back in order to see Sherlock's face better. His hand rested on Sherlock's hair for a moment and the gesture was so intimate and caring John felt like an intruder for a seconds. Then the older Holmes adjusted the blanket that John had spread over Sherlock before and raised to his feet. John stood in the door, a bit flabbergasted.

He had never ever seen act Mycroft be so gentle and obviously caring, though the man's face had kept his emotionless expression the whole time.

John turned back to the living room when Mycroft came towards him.

"So, what happened when he came back? He said your physician took care of him."

"My doctor did. My brother was in a dreadful state and he was not convinced he needed medical attention. The doctor sedated him, otherwise he would have most likely immediately shown up on your doorstep, bleeding all over your carpet."

John rolled his eyes about the remark. "So how did the doctor treat him?"

"Stitched him up, administered antibiotics and gave fluids. After a few hours it became quite clear my brother was not only in physical distress. He cried out in his sleep several times. We tried to medicate him to make him rest peacefully, but it was not working well."

"He has reacted to sedatives in a different ways than normal patients would before."

"I know, but he was kind of… agitated. I am sure you are quite aware my brother sometimes becomes a bit confused with this own emotions when they hit him. To some he is not used, has often no idea how to handle them. He passed out in front of me after he had seen the footage, maybe from the onslaught of his sentiments."

"What footage?"

"You on his bed with the violin and the gun."

"Oh god!" John panted, leaning back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. "He saw that one?"

"Yes."

The memories of that particular day were hazy and John was really honestly ashamed that somebody had seen him in a private moment like that.

_._

_That particular evening he had entered Sherlock's room… He had been in here several times before, crippled with grief and the need to feel Sherlock somehow. _

_The room looked the same as Sherlock had left it. Dirty laundry at a stool, experiment in the corner, used books open on the floor beside it, another unfinished book at the nightstand….. he bit his lip fighting tears again when he wondered what Sherlock had looked like reading in it and what he had thought about what was written in it._

_He felt the weight of his gun in the pocket of the gown. He carried again since Sherlock's death, unable to feel safe anywhere any longer. He knew carrying the bulky object around with himself inside the flat was kind of pathetic, especially how it made the left side of the bath robe bulge and weighted it down. The PTSD had come back full force and made his life a living hell once more. Sherlock's bloodied body on the sidewalk had triggered old memories and created a full load of new ones… all-day things constantly reminding him of the event, Triggers once more springing like rampant weeds. _

_Polaroids of the events were flashing into his consciousness at random intervals all day and all night, torturing him with the memories they started, again and again and again. _

_Quite often he spiralled down into reliving the seconds after Sherlock had fallen in brutal clarity, technicolor and slow motion, with all the sounds and smells. He was forced into helplessly watching and not being able to change anything, reliving his shock, the panic and the hurt again. The aftermath of the flashbacks left him disoriented and shivering in new arisen terror. _

_He had stopped leaving the house._

_That evening he stood in the room, feeling like he was choking on the grieve or on suppressing it. _

_When his gaze fell upon the violin case on the food end of the bed - he had brought it in here a few days before - a hidden door opened and a wave of mental agony hit him with unexpected force. He gasped for air with the impact of it. He would never hear Sherlock's graceful fingers produce the sounds he had learned to love. Never again. _

_Trembling fingers opened the case and stared at the instrument, neatly stored at the velvet with the bow and spare strings. _

_Violent sobs started to shake him and he didn't even try to sustain control. He sat down on the edge of the bed. _

_Was there any chance that there would ever be a time in his life when he wouldn't hurt every minute of every single day? And he wondered if he would have the strength to survive until that day. _

_What Sherlock would say if he knew John sat on his bed sometimes and that he had to press his hand over his mouth to stop the sobs surfacing every other time. _

_Now they oozed out of him again and he didn't fight them. _

_Damnit. He wanted the hurt to stop. Just stop. He couldn't go on like this. He was loosing his fucking mind. He hunched over and wept once more for the best friend he ever had…. _

_It lasted an hour before he raised his head again, numb and exhausted. The floor and the bed were littered with used tissues and John's vision was distorted from his swollen eyes._

_He looked right at the violin case that was still resting on the foot end of the bed. He sat upright and then dragged the case nearer, took the fragile instrument out of the case. He had never held it before. _

_Whenever Sherlock had let it lying around somewhere in the flat he had not dared to touch it, it was kind of a private object. He wasn't sure why. Sometimes it was as if it was an extension to Sherlock's arm, at least the skilfulness with which he used it was as if it belonged to his body._

_Maybe it was a bad idea to touch it now._

_But he hurt too much to care for it's safety, but when he held the small neck and felt the stings under his finger he wondered if it felt like this to Sherlock, too. He had expected the violin to be heavier…. it felt fragile._

_He lay down on his side and rested the bowed instrument next to him and stared at it…. all the times he had listened to Sherlock play, it was so … emotional and honest…. He again felt tears on his face and tried to ignore them. _

_His gun shifted because of his movement, the side of the dressing gown was dragged down his back with the heavy object, John fumbled for it and placed it on the pillow two feet away from his head._

_He touched the strings, they were tight and when his fingers moved over them it made tiny noises. He didn't dare to plug one, afraid it would make him have a full meltdown to hear the sound._

_All the times he had cursed out loud when the music had disrupted his sleep at half past three in the morning or the squeaking sounds when Sherlock was composing and stopped in the middle of a sequence before trying some other tones. That had not been fun, but nevertheless he wanted it back!_

_He blew his nose to be able to breath properly for a minute. He laid back on the bed with his hands over his eyes._

_He was tired…. So very tired. Tired from a lack of sleep… tired from the ugliness of the days, tired of hurting and tired of everything else. _

_So tired, he wanted it to stop. _

_Just stop._

_He stared at the two objects next to him. A thousand thoughts were suddenly chasing each other, in the maze of agony of grief his mind was nowadays. _

_This would be so easy. Immediate relief from all his pains…_

_He stared at the heavy black metal object. _

_Then dragged it nearer and his fingers moved over the surface, probing it's surface structures._

_So familiar and so solid. _

_The end of his pains…. _

_So easy._

_It was tempting. _

_His forefinger went over the sharp edges of the substantial barrel._

_For the first time in his life he was honestly and with his whole heart considering to use it like this. To make the hurting stop._

_Was there anything that was worth going through this every day? _

_Enduring life? What for? Where was the point?_

_No. _

_No point._

_He wiped the wetness from his face with angry fists._

_He just wanted the hurt to stop._

_Stop!_

_But… something was preventing that he picked the thing up and blew his brains out. _

_What?_

_What was it?_

_He lay there, now once more shaking violently…. staring at the weapon for another half hour._

_In the beginning he was asking himself for the reason of his hesitation but later it was as if his mind went numb with all the distress and hurt, he was distantly aware a new headache was forming._

_When it reached a level that made him nauseous another twenty minutes later he stumbled into the bathroom and threw up bile, there was nothing else to bring up. Maybe it was not only the headache that had made his stomach turn. Hanging over the porcelain bowl he realized he was a bit afraid of his own thoughts. He had never been this close to actually end all his pain on the one hand, he was not person who liked the easy ways, but on the other hand the ease this option brought felt disgustingly good and soothing. _

_He stumbled into the kitchen, this was probably one of the moments his therapist had told him to call for help. He would not call her, she would mess this up even more. _

_Dizzy with pain and his mind's agony he downed some medication she had prescribed for emergencies and some ibuprofen for the headache, then stumbled to the couch and switched on the TV…. Distract yourself from all this shit for some time, rest….. _

_The stuff was fast and nasty, it switched him off within twenty minutes and he welcomed the chemical darkness as it rose. _

_._

John switched back to the present. He kind of couldn't believe it. He wanted to kick Mycroft's bottom for having seen his, for invading his privacy, and then for not prevented Sherlock from seeing it. But actually the need to hear how Sherlock had reacted to the recording was more important, he suppressed the anger and the shame, opening and closing his fists repeatedly.

"What happened then, when he saw the footage?"

"Eh…"

"Mycroft, tell me!"

"He had… He was kind of…. "

"Yes?"

"Kind of … distressed with it. I think this was the moment where he first saw and realized that he had almost destroyed the thing he wanted to protect the most, by ignoring what impact your grieve and sentiment would have on you. It shook his very core…" Mycroft hesitated, maybe because John buried his face in his hands in desperation. The doctor understood what kind of a shock if must have been for Sherlock that all he had endured to make John safe again had come so close to be lost and in vain because the detective had underestimated a tiny thing he had not deduced correctly or failed to consider: John's platonic affection.

"Eh, there is one thing I might want to add but don't get it wrong…. When he first introduced me into the plan to fake his death and I told him it was bad to keep certain people out of the loop he said something like 'none would really miss him'."

When John took breath to say something Mycroft raised his hand. "Let me finish. I do not say this to disparage your grief or something, and neither did he. I think he was sure none would ever like him or really want to have him around or as a friend. He never had friends before and being rejected had been his normal social state of being for almost his entire life outside of his family…. Damn, don't ever tell him I said this…. I think he didn't dare to believe anyone really wanted to have him around. I think in that moment when he saw the footage he finally understood the true depth of your friendship and it … shocked him."

John once more swallowed the rising emotions.… The violin had witnessed his desperation and the almost loss, and it was kind of Sherlock's emotional voice, was it… _no, she_ muted because of … that? … it was a bit diffuse, but John started to guess this might be the connection to the present attack….

"He did not watch the videos with my approval I want to point out at this moment." Mycroft switched back to the original topic. "I thought he was resting, but he sneaked into my office - although I had prohibited it specifically and locked it well… and the recordings were in the damn safe! I tried to prevent him watching it because I anticipated it would do him no good. God knows how he even knew they were there…."

"Go on." John said when Mycroft slowed down.

"He missed turning off the alarm and I was notified that someone was in my office. I surprised him. He was angry at _me_, he yelled at me and a few seconds later he was a bit out of it ."

"And then?"

"I tried to help but he yelled some more and I yelled back and he collapsed."

"Collapsed?"

"He blacked out in front of me."

"What did you do?"

"Checked his vitals and made sure he would not choke. Anthea and I tried to get him into the recovery position, but by then he had regained his senses a bit and he fought us, barely conscious. My PA called my physician, he arrived a few minutes later. He sedated my brother because we could not calm him down in his state. He was not listing to us and we were afraid he would hurt himself as soon as we let go of him."

"Jesus, I need to know exactly what happened to him…. he is quite bad at the moment and he needs…. help… and I need to know what happened in order to help him."

"So why don't you ask him what happened?"

"I did ask him, I think his answer is quite obvious, you of all people should know."

"I know, and I agree with you, he needs help. I can provide a good therapist, but you know chances are high it won't work."

"No it won't."

"Even if we managed to drag him there for an appointment it will not help him because …. Well, you know my brother."

"Because simply pouring out his woes to somebody won't help. He does not need a therapy where somebody just listens. And even if he decides to talk, a normal therapist won't understand a single thing he says and then tries to help him doing things _he_ does not understand, or if he does, doesn't accept, or is too stubborn to use… or, probably the most important reason: things that work with the rest of mankind just don't work with him and he knows that, and he will not let someone experiment on him for months until they finally come to the same conclusion he had known from the start, and _that_ I can understand perfectly. It would be hell for him and the therapist and he would be only more frustrated in the end. Not an option."

"I see we agree on the problem.… Hm… I have an important meeting in twenty minutes, I will send you all information I have."

"Hang on. So what do we do now?"

"Wait. Sounds like the only option right now."

"What for? Until he decides to self-medicate?"

"I don't know, John…. I honestly don't know. Keeping him busy usually helps, but it seems not to work any longer."

"Yeah. Right."

"Good evening, John…. I am quite grateful for the fact that you try to help him, and that you decided to forgive him, he is much better …. with you. Well, I have to hurry, we will discuss this further at an other time. I feel like I have spilled my guts enough for one day. I will send Anthea."

"Oh." Was all John could manage after that utterance of approval. After their last confrontation he had feared the 'British Government' might hold grudges. But this was quite the opposite.

"Good evening." And Mycroft was out of the door.

Anthea arrived in the flat an hour later, softly calling his name from the living room. She smiled at him, for a change she had not only a phone in her hand but also a large envelope… and a set of keys that were labelled 221b. What was this? Had Sherlock given _everybody_ a key to the flat?

"Were you there when they were in Serbia?" John asked her, although now she was typing on her phone again.

"I was there when they arrived in Rome, yes, before that, no."

"What happened before?"

"They were secretly flown out of Serbia, with an old private Cessna."

"What happened in Rome?"

"We loaded them into the jet and left."

"_Loaded_…. How was Sherlock then?"

"Unconscious. I didn't recognize him right away."

John frowned. "What happened to him?"

"I am not sure but I think you better look into the file for details."

"Was Mycroft also hurt?"

Anthea didn't answer and had already turned towards the stairs.

This was one of the most detailed and one of the longest conversations John had ever had with that woman. "Thank you." He said after her.

She briefly turned around to answer with one of her professional smiles and returned to the limousine.

John went back to Sherlock's room and sat down on the floor leaning his back against the bed, in this position he could see Sherlock's face and was next to the sleeping detective.

He opened the file. The first thing he saw was a picture of a wild haired person's face who looked a bit surprised and a bit out of it, the picture was clearly taken without the person knowing it. John needed two seconds to realize it was Sherlock. Chin long unkempt brown locks and a beard that was at least a week old hid his face partially.

John raised his eyebrows. He wouldn't have recognized him on the street, at least not immediately and not from his face. Now that he looked closer, it was clearly Sherlock, but it looked… somehow horrible and also a bit funny, but only because the contrast to his normally so accurate and genteel appearance was so enormous. The doctor could clearly see pain in Sherlock's eyes.

John continued to go through the file while Sherlock slept next to him.

The things he learned were intense, and he had to halt and bite his lips or lean his head back against the mattress and close his eyes for a few moments several times to get his reactions to what he had read under control.

There had been several close calls and several injuries in the past two years and John felt the more lucky that he had the man back, maybe a bit worse for wear but back and alive.

Sherlock slept and John just appreciated to have him back, they would manage everything else over time.

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_A/N:_

_You might really want to listen to that violin player :) Youtube search: 'Your love is my drug – Sherlock'_

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_Please review._


	24. Chapter 24

**_Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability_**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_I am not a native speaker and this will get beta-ed some time in the future, but until then please try to ignore my grammar mistakes… or tell me where they are :)_

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**Chapter 24**

**Saturday afternoon**

Head hurts, no, everything hurt. He felt air going in and that hurt, too and when he breathed out it produced a moan, the ground was hard. Where was he?

He blinked, hilarious, eyes hurting, too. The surroundings were hidden in semi-dark.

Lying on his side, blurry mass of short dark blonde hair in direct line of sight.

John…. who was lying on the ground with him….

He tried to focus….

…. in his bedroom?

Sherlock frowned and even that hurt.

How did they both end up here? Had there been an attack?

Adrenaline started to rush through his system.

"John?" He whispered, his hands carefully moving around.

John lay on some blankets, as did he.

Pillows were spread around them.

The top of John's head towards him, the doctor's feet almost under Sherlock's bed.

His own back was facing towards the wall.

What had happened? His mind was unusually bleak… wiped clean…. He felt drowsy, heavy and... medicated?…. Concentrate!

Then the memory hit him…. he had slid down that wall…. He had panicked… passed out.

Embarrassing.

John seemed to have stayed with him….. if the pillows were any indication the doctor had tried to make them comfortable and provided company.

Sherlock lifted his head. Sharp pain spiked through his neck.

John jerked upwards, alarmed.

"Sherlock?"

He must have made some noises then.

John turned towards him and looked right into his eyes.

"Hey…." John lifted himself onto his elbows.

Sherlock tried to do the same but something was off.

"Shhh… Easy… stay put." John soothed. "You passed out and after you briefly returned to consciousness you slept for about four hours. I gave you some meds, those might make you also dizzy and maybe clumsy. How do you feel?"

"…." Sherlock tried to say something but his throat was not agreeing with him, he sucked in air in annoyance. "John…. " Sherlock managed to whispered finally.

"I'm here, Sherlock…. How do you feel?" John did something next to him, rise of pressure on his arm… John was pumping air into a the cuff on his arm, to take his BP.

"Embarrassed." Even his dumb eyes felt sluggish.

"No need. … And besides I thought we were beyond that. You will be okay in a few hours…. At least if you start eating and continue to take the antibiotics regularly.…. You want to try to sit up?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and very slowly sat up with John's help.

John assisted, but as soon as Sherlock was in a half sitting position the pressure on his head rose and his vision was disturbed by huge amounts of black areas. Stay conscious!

"Okay, lie back down." John suggested before Sherlock had even thought that possibility existed.

"No…." Nausea rose. He let himself sink back down again. John had put a large pillow behind his back and he gratefully sank into it with his head an shoulders, came to rest with elevated shoulders and head this way. Less embarrassing than lying down while someone else was leaning over oneself. Why were his thoughts so one-dimensional? It was disturbing but probably also a side effect of the medication.

"Rest some more before we try any exercise…. Stay there for a minute…. Just catch your breath."

His breathing was indeed fast.

John vanished into the kitchen. It felt not good.

It felt like a long time John was out of the room and Sherlock felt his heartbeat so intense it was quite unpleasant. He tried to slow it down.

John returned with bottled sweet drinks and another round of painkillers.

"Could you …. please…."

"Yes?"

He needed John to be safe… he needed him to be near to know that he was safe….

"I…."

And he wanted him around… and he felt more safe when he was around…. This was all quite embarrassing…. he didn't dare to utter it.

"What's wrong?" John leaned over him. "Sherlock, tell me what's unsettling you!"

He wasn't unsettled!… well, then he felt the trembling and the effort it took to get air and he frowned, it hurt.

"I really need to know you are okay and…." John was so good to him, he still did not deserve that….

"Don't…. leave." He finally managed to get out. As soon as his lips had formed the word dark yellow-ochery shame rolled through his mind.

He had said it, it was a moment of severe weakness because he didn't know how to get through this night without getting insane, especially not alone.

John fetched another blanket from the bed and sat down next to him, his elbows resting on his raised knees, hands hanging lax between them.

Sherlock could not identify his expression, but the posture was a relaxed and waiting one, like sitting in the meadow, watching the wildlife.

Yeah, they were kind of camping here, on the floor of Sherlock's room.

A memory of playing with Mycroft brushed through his mind, when they had built dens and booths in the living room. He had never done that outside but imagined it was very uncomfortable, with little creatures crawling around everywhere. Must be itchy. The association to the memory made something dark green grow in his chest and it expanded slowly all over his body. Better, this felt better than before…. More safe. John was a genius, building a nest to make him feel better.

"Relax, I will not go anywhere."

Sherlock tried to relax, he felt his whole body was aching with tension.

"That medication…. not good, not again. I don't like it."

"Okay… but you understood why I gave it to you? " John agreed.

Sherlock did, but the side effects were ugly, he felt like parts of his mind were paralysed and he had to drag them with him and they slowed him down and although his mind was overall pretty clear the anxiety was still very present, it confused his body up to a level of not functioning. Nasty and not really working, then.

"Yes, but doesn't work like it should."

"I see that now, but I needed to try. Last time it was not this bad. But this time I agree. I never liked it either, but at least it worked properly. But on you the side effects are too severe. We'll figure out something else." Sherlock wondered if John was not citing the options because he knew Sherlock wouldn't like them.

.

John saw Sherlock relax a bit, good.

He needed a relaxed atmosphere for what he planned to do now.

"I assume you are pretty tired right now and feel like shit…. But I need to explain something to you. … I know where you are Sherlock… I know how your world feels right now."

"Joohn…." Sherlock sounded a bit alarmed and tensed up again.

"It is quite an empty place…"

"I do not desire to talk about this."

"Shut up." John gently suggested. "You don't have to talk. I will talk in fact. You just shut up and let me say this."

John knew this contained the possibility to trigger himself… he knew he was not good talking about feelings… but this was the only way… and talking to Sherlock was on some levels more difficult than talking to anybody else…. and in some other areas more easy than anybody else.

"Some time ago I wandered in a dark place, my mind, not my body. It was the most horrible place my mind had ever been. Before I had been there my soul had no clue such a horrible place even existed, and when I was there I realized how blind and lucky I had been to not know anything like it existed before. I was maybe even ….. jealous of all those people who had their blessedly normal life and were so innocent not even knowing such places exist. Once you have been there you are never ever able to _unsee_ it, seeing it changed me. I felt so very alone there that it made my whole existence hurt with loneliness and abandonment…. Every single minute of my dreadful existence. Not only that I felt left alone by people, but by anything nice or positive that existed in the world. I was no longer able to feel joy or enjoy anything I had loved to do before. Every hint of bliss and felicity had been wiped from the face of my world and I was sure that having felt it before was a naïve illusion. I didn't understood how other people walked the world and did not understand the lie they were living. I felt like I was a dead man walking and when I went to sleep I hoped I would never wake up again."

"When was this, John?" John wondered if Sherlock was even able to shut up even if he didn't want to talk. But Sherlock seemed to have switched into some other mode. His posture had changed from refusal to ….. ? He sounded alarmed. Was it worry? He had not intended that path of thoughts, not even thought that Sherlock might walk it.

"That doesn't matter." John unfolded his legs and stuffed some pillows into his back.

"It does for me." Sherlock's voice was slightly trembling again. Damn it. Sherlock had seen him on the bed with the gun, did he think he was suicidal?

"Not recently. Don't go there…. Calm down." John lay down on the cushion but eyed Sherlock's body carefully. "You are not getting the point. The point is to ask yourself if you recognize my description of that place in your mind and if you have been there or if there is anything in your mind palace that might feels similar to what I described."

"I doubt that this…."

"Shhh. Just shut up. You need more date, and I need to talk about this. I need to get this out…. So, please, just do me the favour and listen. I might feel better after having done this." John briefly touched Sherlock's hand in the semi-dark.

They were an odd sight there, on the ground, surrounded by pillows and blankets and bottles of water and medical stuff.

"While my soul was surrounded by that dark, my body needed to go on with life. I felt separated… err, my mind felt separated from my body. All-day things constantly reminded me of the horrible things I had experienced. I wandered the world like in a dark bubble. Where ever I went the reminders of what had hurt me so much seemed to follow me, sprang into my mind when I didn't wanted them, I could not get rid of them, I could not hide from them, my own mind harassed me. I could not outrun the constant nightmare my life had become. There was no safe place in my world any longer. More severe were things that were consciously or unconsciously associated with the memories of dark events themselves or the hours around it."

John took a deeper breath, feeling how the memory made him feel cold and uneasy. Talking to his therapist had forced him to learn to speak about his feelings. He grave a sarcastic huff when he realized the feeling of shame about it had profoundly deadened during the past years of therapy. He could do this to help Sherlock.

"The events replayed in technicolour and slow motion, I was helplessly watching and not being able to change anything. Reliving shock, panic and helplessness and hurt again. The aftermath of reliving the memories left me disoriented and shivering in new arisen terror."

John carefully observed Sherlock's reactions, who's eyes had closed. He seemed paler than a half an hour ago.

John hesitated, should he go on with this? He almost felt cruel, but on the other hand he knew - no matter what - Sherlock would never ever go see a therapist. So the only option they had were figure this out between the two of them and when Sherlock had been convinced to let John in to help try to figure this out on their own. Was this madness? Double madness? – No Mycroft was with him, triple then?

But Sherlock had to realize he needed help and he had to realize he actually needed to entrust John with it, at least if he didn't want to entrust anybody else. John hated the idea that he might be the only straw that Sherlock might be willing to grasp, especially since he himself still felt like needing help with this whole disaster himself and was not convinced he would be a good therapist. But due to his own experiences he might be the best choice from the few people Sherlock actually trusted. Well, maybe he could manage to drag Sherlock to his therapist later, though Sherlock had always considered her incompetent.

"I …. err, felt broken, ashamed, numb, in shock, and afraid that anyone in public might see my state of mind. I hurt…. I hurt more than I had ever before in my life."

He stopped, needing a moment himself. He had closed his eyes and when he opened them he saw Sherlock's jaw was clenched and Sherlock had tensed up and was breathing shallowly. John realized that whatever Sherlock had seen in himself from John's descriptions was surfacing. If Sherlock was experiencing nothing of it he'd have pointed it out in an unnerved tone by now. Sherlock knew what he was talking about, at least partially. He continued to watch Sherlock closely when he continued.

"There was no sleep without nightmares, and in them I relived the events in a thousand different scenarios, me always being a bystander with tied hands, helpless, not able to prevent the horrors from happening. The constant threat of tears made me feel vulnerable and I started to hate myself for this weakness even more… was angry at myself for not being able to control it. As you know I am not usually the guy who sheds tears easily."

It was hard for John to keep his tone casual, especially while staring at a Sherlock who seemed to come closer and closer to some kind of severe distress. But it was no use, Sherlock needed to understand he needed help the way he learned all things: the hard way, there was no way he would realize it any other way. He needed a bit of a gentle kick in the pants to make him open his eyes on this. John hated himself for being the one who executed the kick, but he knew he was the one and only person who was able to do it. If Sherlock would listen to anybody it was John, not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not Molly…. Him, only him. Right now he swore about how hard it was. It even kind of hurt…

"I hurt…. and sometimes the only thing in my mind was that I wanted the hurt to stop." John finished. Oh god, it still hurts. It made him close his eyes and wait for a moment to calm down.

Sherlock gulped, then turned onto his side and hid himself from John's view effectively.

John slowly went around him and found Sherlock was trembling again.

Shit. Here we go. John took a deep breath, now or never.

He half sat, half lay down next to Sherlock on the other side. The other man had curled up into a foetal position.

John slowly rested his hand on Sherlock's upper arm.

Sherlock's breath haltered for a moment and John decided to speak.

"Sherlock, you need help with this. You can't do this alone. Let me in…. Let me help."

Sherlock gulped and drew another shallow breath.

"I know you hurt and I know the memories are tormenting you. If you don't get help this might become far worse or even develop into PTSD…. And believe me, that will be so much worse, you don't want to go there."

Sherlock's jaw clenched even more.

"You don't need to do anything. You trust my medical skills and allowed me to stitch you up?… This is not too different….. Just let me in, just listen to me and go with me where I take you."

Sherlock remained still.

"Can you do that?"

John knew that letting Sherlock think it over would only result in him retreating, he needed to take him by the mind's hand as long as Sherlock was in this fragile and vulnerable mindset, the only situation he would be able to take it, which was right now.

"Sherlock, I want to help, I need to help. I know where you are, I know you feel no hope and I know you feel lost, but all you have to do is allow me in. Let me take care of things for a moment. I've been there, I maybe have a compass. Can you do that?"

John's hand was still resting on Sherlock's arm and in the semi dark John saw something that he interpreted as a tiny nod…. Even if it wasn't he would continue.

He needed a few seconds to collect his thoughts. Sherlock seemed not to dare to move the tiniest bit after that, tensed up to a maximal amount.

"Hey, you need to relax a bit, here." John started to move his thumb across the shoulder joint, where it happened to be. The detective took a few deeper breaths.

The fact that Sherlock did not shove him away and the fact that he had agreed to let the doctor in where large steps…. and showed a lot of trust.

"You told me the Mindpalace was damaged somehow…." John started in a soothing voice. "I want you to take me there."

John waited. After about two minutes he wondered if Sherlock was able to hear him or if his distress was causing more trouble than John had thought.

It took another two minutes until he heard an answer.

"How?" Sherlock sounded terrible, exhausted and hoarse.

"By just describing me what everything looks like… how the palace feels to your senses…. Just describe what you see. Take me there and tell me what you see for the beginning."

John felt more than saw another nod. He tried to relax beside the other man, get into a more comfortable position.

"Okay. I want you to go to the mind palace, but simultaneously keep your ears with me, can you do that?"

"'course."

"Really, you usually kind of ignore me when you go there."

"'t's new." Sherlock whispered.

"Really, since when?" John tried to ease the situation a bit doing some random talk.

"j'st happened… don't know…. s'nce Bas'erville … or since the return…?"

Sherlock sounded as if he really needed to sleep. John was aware it was a lot of work for him to talk. But he needed to built the small entrance he had been granted into a solid door before Sherlock closed it again with shame and stoic embarrassment.

"Like a speaker… system."

John raised his eyebrows. Really? This was… something important, wasn't it? Huge change or something. He had his own speaker system in there now?

"Okay. Try to relax a bit, breathe deeper….. Good. Let's go. Let's find out about the problem, can you do that?"

"There's damage….."

"You're already there?" This was fast.

"No, I know. I need a minute." Sherlock's voice trailed of at the last words. His breathing deepened.

"Yeah, I know, can you go to where the damage is and describe what it looks like?… no wait, I need a rough plan of the surroundings…. How many stories are there?"

"A lot."

"More than twenty?"

"Yes."

"How many rooms are there on one level?"

"D'pends."

"On average?"

"B'tween thirty and seventy."

"Blimey. Does it actually look like a real building?"

"Ssome areas do." Sherlock's speech was gaining strength.

"Was the memory palace always there or did you built it in your youth?"

"It was always there an' had different areas….. but it hadn't a visual appearance when… when I was a child, it had not the shape of the insides of a building or of rooms. It was just areas in space. I built the memory technique inside the phenomenon and they… kind of… merged." Sherlock explained.

In the beginning John had thought the Mindpalace was just a memory technique, but right now he understood it was also a visualization of Sherlock's mind.

"So, the parts you built latest have the clearest visualization?"

"The parts I built in the past fifteen years have the clearest visible structures."

"And the parts you built in your youth?"

"They are more abstract…. Some information there kind of hover in endless space."

John paused a moment, trying to imagine what Sherlock described.

"Are you in there now?"

"Can't concentrate, you talk to much."

John giggled.

"So concentrate."

John waited and could almost feel the change in Sherlock's demeanor when he managed to enter his mind's realm. His body relaxed and his breathing deepened even more. Would this be good if he was panicking again? Take him to the palace?

"Hmmm." Sherlock murmured.

"You're telling me you are in the lobby?" John tried to joke a bit. He had lowered his voice and spoke slowly.

"Hmm." Sherlock sounded dreamy.

"Go to the damaged areas, describe the paths."

"Grande double staircase….. Corridors….. Current level is like an old school building. Many doors. No damage here." Sherlock sounded faraway, his eyes were closed.

"Okay, what is the light like?"

"It's illuminated perfectly… though kind of bright."

"So where are you headed now?"

"Walking up the stairs to the seventh level."

"What do they look like?"

"This stairway is fancy… space age…"

John chuckled, this was actually getting a more interesting touch than a horrible one.

"Can you remember when you built that particular one?" John asked just because he was curious.

"Eh… yeah." Sherlock muttered, sounding a bit bemused, too.

"You like that one…." The doctor felt Sherlock relax more under his hand.

"Yes." Sherlock exhaled.

"Is there a level in similar design?"

"Yeah…. But there is no damage…. I am climbing another flight of stairs."

"Yes, alright." John was actually kind of amazed to take this virtual journey inside of Sherlock's mind.

"How do you know from the stairs there is no damage?"

"Feels like it."

Now, that was kind of puzzling.

Sherlock sucked in air through his teeth and the doctor could feel him tense up.

"What is it?" John carefully asked

"There…. some areas are burned down or something… I can't really know because I can't see, there is …. Are visual disturbances… maybe smoke?"

"How were they damaged? From the bonfire?"

"No…. from bombardment… or something."

"With what was it bombarded? Bombs?"

"The bonfire,…."

John frowned.

"… Serbia, …. the fall,…." Sherlock continued the list.

John could feel the distress rise in the room. "So it was bombarded …. Eh, your soul was attacked by several events that shook you, made you… hurt you in a not-physical way?" John tried to translate.

"Mmaybe." Sherlock admitted sounding ashamed.

"Did you try to extinguish the problems?"

"I… It took some time to realize, then I tried, but I was busy with Moriarty's net and… I …. underestimated it, and… it's still ….. smoldering."

"Did you try to get a hand on that?"

"Repeatedly."

"Why isn't it working?"

"The water …. vaporizes and the … mist makes seeing the seat of fire difficult… there is too much rubble to get through."

"Is the mist and the rubble a visualization of emotions or sensations?"

"I don't know. Sounds ridiculous."

"Maybe of anxiety to face it…." John mused.

"No, I am not afraid of facing things…."

"_Do_ you know what you are afraid of?" John probed further.

"No… Yes."

John waited but finally understood Sherlock was not about to share of his own.

This was actually further than John had hoped to go and he decided to leave it here.

"Okay, I want you to you 'bookmark' this area somehow and mark it so you don't stumble into it accidentally and in a way that we can find it again easily if we decide to. And then ….. can you slowly come back to reality?…. or is there something you want to show me?"

"Mind Palace is reality." Sherlock mumbled.

"I know, but I don't know how else to put it into words to get out of there. Can you bookmark it?"

"Hmm."

"Don't go there alone…. and remember where it is."

"Yes."

John removed his hand from Sherlock's arm and waited. It took almost two minutes before Sherlock slowly blinked and then opened his eyes.

"You are tired."

Sherlock nodded.

"You want something to help you sleep?"

A headshake.

"Okay, can you manage to roll onto your back for a moment?"

A nod. Sherlock managed to shift into the prone position.

"You need anything?"

"No….. Cold." Sherlock protested when John dragged back the blanket and took his BP once more.

"You need some sugar."

John fetched the meds and some soft drink from the floor. He helped Sherlock take the assortment of colourful pills and Sherlock excepted his stabilizing hand on his back, took them without further comments. He even drank half of the small bottle of sweetened beverage before he lay down again. When John made their temporary camping site more cosy Sherlock rolled back into the foetal position.

John offered him the edge of another blanket he had shoved away earlier. Sherlock took it and dragged the blanket over his legs.

"Sleep. I will not leave."

It took almost half an hour until Sherlock's breathing finally evened out.

Sherlock's sleep was fitful and John spend the rest of the night trying to figure out how to make this work, thinking about what do to next. He was not a therapist and the weight of the responsibility he had just started to shoulder made him a bit uneasy. But repairing the palace and sort out some of the negative responses seemed necessary.

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_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading. Please review._


	25. Chapter 25

**_Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability_**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 25 **

**Sunday morning**

John woke up in the early hours of the morning and to his surprise Sherlock was still sound asleep. What woke him? He looked at Sherlock's bedside alarmclock. Well, he had slept almost eight hours, was probably just finished sleeping after this time. He still felt tired and a bit stiff. He hadn't slept on the ground voluntarily in ages, so he was no longer used to it. Though in the army and emergency attendance he had learned to sleep anywhere and in almost every position.

He watched Sherlock sleep for a few moments. The other man looked more relaxed than in the past days. The doctor watched the other man breathe and his pulse moving at his neck. His personal miracle, he was alive and in front of him instead of rotting in a grave. As slowly and quietly as possible he peeled off the blankets and stood up, when Sherlock didn't react he went into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.

The Laptop booted while he made coffee. Sipping the hot liquid he read the newest comments on his block. He had added the last post about Sherlock being back on the 7th. But he had not felt ready to write something more than that yet. He had been still stunned and really angry and had not really known what to say back then, when he had re-read the entry a few days later he felt it was kind of 'off' but hadn't had the nerves to go over it again just yet.

The response to Sherlock's return was an overwhelming flood of comments and emails. After the fall John had read the sympathy mails away, it was hard but all the people who told him that they still believed in Sherlock were good for him, especially in the moments where he himself struggled to believe in him.

Most of the comeback-mails he had read until now were positive, but he had barely managed to read a quarter. A few ones were not positive, but their percentage was smaller than he had expected and there was nothing really venomous in them. He approved a few comments on the blog and answered a short mail from Harry.

During the early evening Mary had texted him twice and he had answered that he was too tired to talk and that Sherlock was in need of medical attention and that he would call her back later. She had expressed that it was fine and if he had the chance he should sleep, too. Now he found an email from her, she wanted to know what happened and told him if he was too busy she would call Sunday night. He loved her for these small things. She was so patient with all this.

He took his time answering and explaining what had happened, not sure what the coming day would bring that kept him from calling her again. Inwardly he found he was hoping the criminal elements were taking a day off, on second thoughts… something nice and small that would not be too difficult and violent and that would keep Sherlock busy and not-bored would be beneficial…. Sherlock would not take it well to do nothing for a whole day in his current state. He wrote her some nicer things about the past days because their calls had contained so much of the difficult stuff and he felt he needed to add a counterpart. Mary seemed to enjoy her lessons, apparently they were not as boring as she had initially feared. She liked the different routine and the accommodations seemed to be more like a hotel than expected. She sounded fine and enthusiastic, he would not disturb this more than absolutely necessary with his BS. Mary had offered to come home but he was glad he had refused while reading her descriptions. Besides she had saved up for quite some time to do this additional education. He went for a second cuppa after sending his answer.

When he added milk to his cup he heard movement in Sherlock's room but he decided to wait for him to come out. No need to heighten Sherlock's embarrassment. But he would go after him if the other man would hide in there until noon. The idea proved to be irrelevant a few seconds later when Sherlock's door opened and a dishevelled looking consulting detective stepped into the kitchen.

"Oh, hi." John greated.

"Mornin'" Sherlock answered politely. "Coffee!" It was an utterance of delight about the presence of the beverage. John fetched another cup and started to filled it. Sherlock simultaneously started adding sugar to the same cup. He worked around John, though he was still clumsy he managed it without spilling a single grain, getting in John's way or the slightest touch. The gesture was so much Sherlock and showed so much trust and familiarity it made John smile.

"You missed coffee."

Sherlock stirred to dissolve the sugar.

"No… Yess… sometimes… Coffee in Naples was nice but you need to order double because otherwise it's just a tablespoon full … tea was bad though… overall the absence of good tea was much more burdensome." Sherlock elaborated absentmindedly while inhaling the scent thoroughly before tasting it for the first time. John had feared it would be a difficult morning but up to now it was starting in a relaxed way.

"Breakfast?"

"Nope."

"There are some nice new comments on the blog about your return." John tried to keep the conversation light and easy.

"You are trying to encourage me to comment on the comments?"

"Maybe, depends… if you try to be nice."

"You want to nice-check before publishing?" Sherlock answered with an expression of exaggerated false sarcasm, rolling his eyes upwards to underline it.

Sherlock sat down on the couch and said nothing, his expression had changed to _deep in thoughts_ or _distant_, John wasn't sure.

An hour later Sherlock hadn't said another word and John didn't try to make him talk. But the doctor wondered if Sherlock's mind was with the case or with the events of the past night. John tried to clean up the kitchen and the living room, half expecting Sherlock to throw a fit but he didn't react at all. The other man kept his eyes closed for long periods, his hands flat against each other under his chin, they never lost tension.

John made tea twice and placed it on the table, but it remained untouched. Was Sherlock angry about himself for not having continued the surveillance last night due to his collapse? Was he sulking about failing to protect her, about being inept because of that? Or was he angry at John for his course of action or for him having seen him this vulnerable and weak?

.

In the late afternoon, when John started to wonder how and when Sherlock planned to continue the surveillance of the potential victims flat, Sherlock's phone chirped. The tall man jumped up as if bitten and John almost dropped the mug of cold tea he had just removed from the sofa table. It was under ten seconds Sherlock needed to open and read the message, then he stared down at his phone for over a minute, totally unmoving, until John took the phone from his hands to read it himself.

'Veterinary student found, dead for at least 14 hrs, wanna come? Lestrade'

"Are we gonna go?" John asked while inwardly he cursed. She had died! They hadn't observed her flat. This was bad, really, really bad!

"Of course!" Sherlock seemed almost offended about the idea of not going. He returned to full-action mode suddenly and hasted into his room to change.

"Okay. Will be ready in a minute." John told the empty room and exhaled, then headed for his bedroom to change, too.

He was just back downstairs when Sherlock brushed past him and was still in the procedure to get into his coat when he hasted down the stairs. John hurried to close his shoe and grab his jacket.

Sherlock already stood on the sidewalk, hand raised into the air, when John reached him. The passing taxi ignored him.

The look on Sherlock's face was almost comical and John had to look down to keep himself from giggling. When he looked up again Sherlock was clearly disgusted that no taxi was available within thirty seconds. One thing he obviously hadn't learned during his hiatus was patience with certain things, though John was sure he himself was handled extra-patient these days.

"Smells like snow." Sherlock stated, his eyes distant as if he was watching something none else could see. John looked up into the dark sky, the clouds were heavy, but there were some tiny patched of dim moonlight in the distance.

When he returned his gaze to the tall figure next to him a taxi stopped next to him.

They climbed in and some time later arrived at the scene. John had wondered the whole ride how this could happen, why the hell had she been killed the night they haven't been on stakeout? Was it their fault?

The scene looked like a usual crime scene: yellow and black tape, police cars, police lights, policemen, and busy running around all over the place.

Sherlock silently passed the tape, totally ignoring everybody who politely asked him what he wanted or who he was.

John followed and wondered if there were really people at SY who didn't know who he was these days. Well it was dark and Sherlock looked like death warmed over.

When John finally looked around he blinked with surprise. He hadn't asked for details and had somehow expected to be at the house where the student lived but this was far away in a totally different part of town.

Sherlock entered a warehouse, went straight up to the fist level and passed the door, John on his heels. Lestrade was barking orders through a large room that looked like bureaus or administrative rooms.

"How do you know where to go?"

"You are teasing me with extra dumb questions, aren't you? Or haven't I filled the necessary count of words to be polite for one day?"

Now John was the one rolling his eyes, Sherlock's mood was not getting better with the new facts.

Lestrade was still ordering people around in an unnerved tone when they stepped closer.

"Where?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade pointed to the back of the room where another door was located and Sherlock headed straight towards it. The consulting detective did only two steps into the small room before he stopped and John stepped to his side to see what he was staring at.

A young woman was sitting on the floor, leaned against the wall and a shelf with her back. Her hands and ankles were bound and she was gagged. She was pale but could not be dead for long.

Sherlock knelt down and inspected the hairline, then the insides of her sweatshirt sleeves. A moment later he lifted the jumper at her side and felt a crease of the wide undershirt. Next he dragged the waistband a few centimetres down and looked at the fabric of her knickers.

A moment later he stood up and turned away. Lestrade blocked the door of the small room and didn't step aside. Sherlock almost bumped into him, totally expecting Greg would dodge.

"Tell me."

"Not our perpetrator."

"Hell, Sherlock explain, please."

Sherlock sighed. "I need more data. Seventeen theories so far. No need to waste time explaining them all. John, check the bruises next to her hairline and her jaw. Any ideas?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's mood was obviously not the best one, too.

"Quite interesting findings, but not our serial killer. I will inspect the lower level and the other room."

Lestrade stepped away and the consulting detective headed down the stairs, not waiting for a reaction.

John knelt down while fitting the gloves over his fingers. He took his time, closely inspected the odd marks parallel to the hairline, at the jaw and cheeks. "Can you send me the pictures of the bruises?" The doctor asked Lestrade.

"Sure. Hunnigs, get downstairs and look for the bloody photographer." Lestrade send away the only other person currently in the room with them both.

"He's worse." It was a statement, not a question. "You look like hell, John."

"Yes. And there might be a few things you should know. He has …. attacks you should be aware of, just in case they happen when I am not there. Some day I will have to go back to work in the future and I won't be there, and I need to know you are prepared. Because he won't be."

"Gosh, honestly? The medical kind or….."

John just stared at Greg, not sure how to answer this. He did not want to betray Sherlock's trust but when there was a person who needed to be made privy to the theme it was the DI... well, and MrsHudson. Originally John had planned to talk about this necessety with Sherlock before talking to them both, but...

"If I see an opportunity to talk, I will text, I want to talk to Sherlock about telling you. He won't like it. ...Sherlock bought beer for us so we could have a pint at the flat, maybe we should do that."

"He did… you are kidding, right?" But the answer was written so clearly on John's face that he didn't, he just nodded his understanding.

"I think he does not want to be alone, though he would never admit it. Hunting Moriarty's people down has been a lot more traumatizing than I thought in the beginning. It's hard work to get anything out of him, but that's nothing new."

Lestrade sighed.

"How about I come around tomorrow to discuss the case with him in detail so you can get some sleep, mate?"

"I…."

"I want to help, don't hesitate."

"Okay, I'll call."

"Have you ever seen marks like this?" Lestrade changed topics.

"Hm, maybe. My fist thought was she was wearing some kind of a mask."

"Me too. Something medical?"

"No, but…. wait…." John turned her head gently and searched for more marks on her skull…. "Nothing medical, but my first thought was that she wore a gasmask, but the marks are different to those I know. Those should be located more to the left and this…" he pointed to one of the darker areas "…shouldn't be there at all…. Maybe an foreign product."

"Or one not military but private?.. or a new brand for special purposes?" Lestrade wondered aloud. "Someone needs to find out what was produced here and if there is an area where one needs to wear a mask."

"Nothing was produced here that needed masks." Sherlock came back into the room.

"How do you know?"

"Chemist, remember?"

"What has the one to do with the other?"

"Think for a change, Detective Inspector, would you?!… It was not a new mask, it was an _old_ one, maybe more of a collectible than an object fit for use."

"What?"

"What else did you find?" John asked.

"Oh, right..." Sherlock held out his fist and dramatically opened his hand, which contained a red cross pin, neatly packed in a small evidence back.

"Worth about 50 pounds according to a collector's internet site. It's from WW2."

"What has that to do with the mask?"

"Look at her underwear."

"Oh, please." Lestrade was not in his most patient mood today.

"Obviously she is not wearing her own clothes, a girl styled like this does not wear a jumper two sizes to big in combination with hairspray and makeup. Her underwear looks as if they belong to Mrs Hudson's mother, as does her hairdo."

John lifted the jumper at her side and nodded.

"This is like a cotton sheet, not jersey or synthetics… Neither are the knickers… "

"Time travel, then?" Lestrade joked.

"In a way it was... Apparently she was into WW2 stuff. This place was used for role-play sessions re-enacting scenes from the second world war. Regularly. Up to thirty different people spending their free time here... But there was an incident and she died, probably because the old gas mask had a malfunction and none noticed until it was too late, maybe because she was hurt as a part of the act in an other way. The others fled after cleaning up, leaving her behind, in fear of being accused of negligence or murder."

"I am sure we will find her uniform somewhere in the building."

"Uniform?"

"Yes, she played an air raid warden."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Look, there is a whistle... " he pointed at the tiny object, half hidden under her calf, "... and a gas rattle..." he pointed at a wooden object that was lying close to her right hand, "... typical equipment for this kind of work… as would be a gas mask…."

"You mean this stuff is actually old?" John wanted to know.

"Partially, yes. The question is: if this group or these people had actually the money to buy this kind of militaria or reproductions, why were they using this building unauthorized?"

"How do you know they were?" Lestrade asked.

"They wouldn't have left her if they had permission, because then the one who gave permission would know who used it."

"Maybe they did it to add kind of an secretive atmosphere." John suggested.

"Or they were doing something else that was forbidden… like smoking weed, at least the smell is still lingering." Sherlock explained, then his face lit up "Oh!… I need another minute.".

"It's not like we are hustling you. Take your time." Lestrade yelled after the detective who was already running down the stairs again. He threw a questioning look at John and when he nodded they both followed him.

Forensics came up the stairs while they were halfway down and Lestrade directed them to the body.

They met again downstairs where Sherlock was kneeling besides a dustbin that contained waste that seemed at least fifteen years old, considering the faded juice tetra pak and cake-wrappings John remembered from his time as a medical student.

"Those are from…. to old."

"There could be waste from two decades in there."

"Yes, but I was looking for… this!" Sherlock held up something like an stripe ripped of a bedsheet, it was dirty with something that looked like blood. John took it and looked closer.

"Standard issue cotton bandages from the first half of the century. The bloodwas... maybe 20 hours in contact with oxygen, according to the colour."

"We need to check the body for wounds….. but first…" Sherlock wandered around the place, his gaze darting through the large hall and searching every corner, pillar, dust pile and old machinery left behind. Hands behind his back walking around, John and Lestrade followed him. The consulting detective stepped closer to one of the metal pillars and knelt down beside it. The lower part was bloody, too.

"Somebody hurt himself on this… or was thrown against it…. John, search for an old or used first aid kit items or bags."

Lestrade yelled through the large hall to his men to search for it, too.

"Ehh…" John exclaimed a moment later from a corner of the large room so Lestrade and Sherlock joined him. He had picked something from the ground.

"What's that? A lipstick?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"No." John carefully twisted the top of the cylindrical device and it came of. "It's an gun oiler made of brass, royal artillery version."

"Reproduction or original?" Sherlock asked.

"Can't say, I am not into that history stuff. I only know because my great uncle had one of those, carried it around for decades after the war."

"So these are all evidence this is a WW2 freaks' playground." Lestrade summarized.

"So accident or murder?"

"Need to see the body. Text me when it is available and Molly is on duty…. No I will ask her myself, thank you. She was reported missing by her parents, right?" Sherlock switched topics within seconds.

"Yes." Lestrade confirmed.

"I don't wonder she didn't told them where she went, but I wonder why she was reported missing this early. Why didn't she tell her parents she was with a friend? I assume they played here after lessons since Friday. Why was she reported missing so early and where is her mobile? Find out. Tell me if there are new facts." Sherlock turned around and headed for the door. Halfway he turned around and added "I assume the surveillance of the bank clerk's flat brought nothing new or you would have called. Text me if there is another missing person reported, if there is John and I will take over the surveillance if your men are still not available."

John and Lestrade stood there alone.

John sighed.

"I need to fetch him before he leaves without me. He hasn't spoken ten sentences all day, this was good for him, though sad for her."

"Okay. Good luck. Thank you two for coming."

"Thank you for calling, he would have vandalized the flat without a little riddle today…. You saved the day."

John followed Sherlock to the door.

….

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….

A/N:

_Please review._


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

_I want to add the following about the WW2 topic: I am German and since I was a child I was interested in the history of WW2. I think I watched almost every WW2 documentary _BBC_ and _The History Channel_ ever made. I also saw several really interesting ones about London during the war and the homefront effort. Since I was in my early teens I visited memorials and museums whenever I got the chance, and two concentration camps, it's heavy stuff._

_Re-enacting WW2 sounds strange to me. I know people in other countries do it, and for me it's quite okay that they celebrate or re-live getting rid of a tyrant. _

_I know the accessories can be bought abroad but it's really strange for me to see there is actually third reich uniforms and patches for sale on internet pages, because in Germany you'd get in trouble with the law for wearing or showing a swastika. _

_Loads of people do re-enactment/role-play here as a hobby, too, but it's about more mystical stuff or things that were way longer in the past. _

...

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...

**Sunday night**

They arrived at the flat past midnight. Sherlock had not spoken during the ride and when he went to his room to change into more comfortable clothes John decided to be insolent and just follow him. He really needed to take a look at Sherlock's back.

Sherlock undressed as if John wasn't there with his back to him, until he started to unbutton his shirt.

"What do you want?" his tone was not exactly friendly.

"See the stitches."

Sherlock undressed until he was only in his boxers and socks, then put on his pyjama pants. As soon as he had them on he stood rooted to the spot unmoving.

John wasn't getting it.

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Oh, I …. Can we sit in the kitchen?"

"No."

The nest of blankets was still on the ground, Sherlock had not moved any of it.

"I want us to sit or you lying down."

Sherlock reached for the t-shirt he wore under his dressing gown, clutched it to his chest and moved over to the pile of blankets. John's medical bag was still there, too.

To John's surprise Sherlock shoved the blankets a bit this way and then that way and finally he lay down on top of them.

John raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

He checked if the bag contained everything he would need and then started peeling the large plasters from Sherlock's back. He had last seen the wounds Friday morning, before they went to Scotland Yard. The detectives back had improved a lot. The infection was almost gone and most of the stitches had healed nicely. He would remove them in two days. He once more put ointment on the still red areas of Sherlock's back and then redressed the sites he had worked around with the salve.

"Okay. Looks a lot better."

Sherlock stayed silent and when the doctor patted his shoulder as a sign that he was finished Sherlock sat up and pulled the shirt over his head.

Making some tea would probably be a good idea so John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Five minutes later he returned with a steaming mug and the detective's meds.

Sherlock had put on a sweatshirt.

"You are cold?"

Sherlock didn't bother to answer the question, it was probably too stupid, well he was right, John doubted Sherlock had taken it one so do a fashion parade.

Sherlock was in a supine position now, pillows piled up so that his torso was elevated, his hands were in his typical thinking position though his posture was a bit off.

John held the cup against the back of Sherlock's right hand and the other man automatically took it.

"Here." John held out the meds.

Sherlock looked unnerved but took them with some water from a bottle that had been still lying on the ground next to the blankets, then returned to holding the warm cup in his hands.

John assumed Sherlock was extremely frustrated with the case and with his own problems.

Sherlock's eyes were now closed and John wondered if Sherlock had dismissed him.

John carefully tucked at the dressing gown's sleeve before talking.

"It was not your fault she is dead…. Even if we had observed her flat we would not have prevented her death. She was not home for days. Do not tor…." He stopped himself before saying 'torture yourself' and hastily continued "… put that weight on your shoulders. There was nothing you could have done."

Sherlock didn't react but John knew he had heard him because he had slightly stiffened when John had started to speak.

It was totally useless to tell Sherlock he should get some rest or eat or whatever sane people would do so he didn't.

"Good night." John stood up and went out of the room with his bag. Sherlock's mood was far to dark to leave the stuff in there.

.

For a change Sherlock was glad John left him alone. The diffenrence from _no-John-present_ to _John present 24/7_ was quite intense. He wanted him around in general, but right now he felt like he needed some quiet and _none-present_.

Cold…

Today had totally messed up the fine sorted out image he had about the case. Every fact had been tossed around and it was back-to-square-one in a way.

How had he missed it? What had been so wrong in his deductions?

The only good thing was that she obviously had not been murdered by _their_ killer. The thought that she might have been killed because he had had a nervous breakdown and therefore not continued the surveillance had driven him mad, at least before he had learned the facts.

His body had reacted to that, his stomach had felt as if he drank several litres of ice cold water.

Not good.

His transport was really getting on his nerves these days.

It felt heavy and the stitches itched.

Lying on his back put pressure on them and turned the itching into pain.

That was good. Felt better…

Physical pain was _so_ much easier to handle than mental distress.

Where was the flaw in his theories?

What had made him so sure she would be the next victim?

Think!

It was all to slow!

His mind was slow, police was slow, even his transport was slow. It was disgusting. He needed to think clearly!

Where was he…?

Yes, flaw…. His flaws… The flat, it was the outer circumstances of her living environment that had mad him make the final decision to observe _her_ building.

He hoped the Yarders were surveiling the other woman right now. The thought that they might have been right to observe _her _flat was a bit unsettling.

Had he lost his ability to think properly in the past two years? He indeed knew he had been slower than before, if he was honest with himself. The time away had left him with deep exhaustion and a constant dark moods…. He had thought one of the reasons was…. because …. the information was trying to hide from his sight, he went after it. Oh, John's absence had slowed him down, he needed that conductor.

He had known that before, but had tried to deny it.

Why had he?

Was he to conceited and selfish to admit he was better with / because of someone else? .. The fear of John-not-being-there and leave - like everybody else he had known had left in the past - was certainly a factor….

Also during the time when he was away John was simply not available and it was only making things worse missing him….

How had he again got sidetracked? He needed to think about the case and how he had messed up!

The victim, he should check if there was maybe an online thing about the group and their activities, he doubted they communicated via landline or mobile alone. Maybe a blog….. Blog?….

He heard John move around until a few moments ago. And now the monitor-John-routine kicked in and began to hum in alarm.

Sherlock held his breath and felt his heartbeat sped up.

But then … he heard John's bed squeak and he swore silently about the program. He needed to configure the sensitivity of that routine and bring it down a bit.

When he tried to see the configuration file it slipped away from him. He tried to open it again and realized he was suddenly in his mind palace.

How had this happened?

He needed to think about _the case_!

He threw a virtual vase - that happened to stand in the hallway - against a door in frustration….

And since when was there decoration like vases for god's sake!

He shoved himself back to his physical room in the flat and when he opened his eyes his head was turned towards the bed.

He spotted the violin case under it. John had put it back.

He crawled the three steps to the bed and dragged it out.

When he opened the case something very deep inside him started to hurt.

He waited a moment and tried to identify the feeling, but he couldn't.

He had not held her for two years, not opened the case, not felt her, not smelled her… not played at all for _two_ years….

Sure, he'd had the opportunity to use other instruments if he wanted to, but he hadn't. It would have been betrayal.

This was sentimentality towards an wooden dead object, ridiculous!

He took her out of her cage.

She was as light and warm as he remembered.

He lied back down on his back and held her to his chest, the position she was usually in when he attuned her.

Stared at the ceiling he realized the hurt in his chest felt like caused by her and soothed by her at once.

Unsettling feeling.

But he knew it, it was familiar, he had felt like this while he spoke to John from the top of Bart's.

He was tired. So tired, his body was and his mind was… of the whole thing, of the world in general.

Without planning to or realizing it Sherlock slipped into sleep.

.

**Monday, late morning**

John had again been woken by his text alert.

Lestrade informed them that the veterinary student's body would be autopsied in three hours and that two new cases of missing persons had come in. John texted him back to inform Sherlock in one hour.

He dressed and went downstairs. The living room was empty and an unsettling silence inhibited the flat.

These rooms had been empty for two years and the melancholy John felt had an aftertaste of hurting loneliness.

Was this what made Sherlock feel even worse after his return?

Did he felt like John did after the fall, when he was alone in the flat and knew Sherlock would never live here with him again? John sighed and headed for Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was on his back, still on the ground and…. John held his breath… he held the violin to his chest. Was he asleep?

John waited to see him breathe with his own breath held…. When he saw it he briefly relaxed. This was such a vulnerable sight… kind of intimate.

Sherlock had obviously not played, the bow was still neatly stored in the case, as was all the other accessories.

He knew Sherlock could sleep for long hours without even moving an inch but this was awesome. He looked like a sleeping statue, those ones you saw on top of king's coffins with their swords in hand.

The temper-pin was hanging over Sherlock's left shoulder and the instrument moved slowly up and down with Sherlock's shallow breaths. John stood there for some long moments, wondering if he should wake Sherlock.

"What time is it?"

John flinched. "Oh, I didn't realize you were awake."

"I wasn't."

"Hm, I was so careful not to step on any creaking floorboards."

"You didn't. Your keen look woke me."

"Sorry." John giggled.

"News?"

This must mean Sherlock had already figured out that Lestrade was texting John before informing him, was he angry about that? Was it worth a try to hide that? Would probably do more damage to Sherlock's trust so better not.

"Call Lestrade."

Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time that morning and gently lifted the violin from his chest. He neatly stored her back into her case and stood up slowly.

"I will make tea." John disappeared into the kitchen.

…


	27. Chapter 27

**_Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability_**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_..._

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_..._

**Chapter 27 **

**Monday late afternoon**

They entered the lab area and met Molly late in the afternoon.

Sherlock had texted her and asked when she would probably be finished and they arrived while the was still at work, asking them to wait or put on masks and step closer. John was not eager and stayed at the desk but Sherlock stepped closer.

"So?"

"She died of anaphylactic shock."

"Interesting."

"She was allergic to different types of mould according to her medical files. Lestrade contacted her former doctor."

"The mould was probably in the original WW2 gas mask because it was not properly stored over the years." Sherlock informed.

"Mask?"

"It's still missing. Old gas mask, you see she wore it, here….." he gently shoved away her hair to show Molly the hairline, then pointed at her jaw. "… and there."

"Oh, right. I wondered where those were from. I documented them of course, without knowing what they were."

Sherlock pulled out his moleskin notebook and wrote something down.

"This is the model that was used, there are not so many different types and I did some research and this is the only one that fits the marks….. I assume she started to have trouble breathing and then couldn't get the thing off because she was bound…"

"Bound?"

"Ehm, yes, I deduced they were doing re-enactment there. She played an air raid warden and I assume they were doing a spy story where she uncovered the spy who then took her hostage…. and the other party was supposed to rescue her…. and so on."

"Wardens … weren't those volunteers that helped in the war?"

"Yes, they alarmed the people of their street and brought them down to the bunkers, then stayed outside until it was over to give an all-clear signal. Many of them died. It was a dangerous and hard job." John explained. When Sherlock threw him a frowning look he remarked. "What, I am not allowed to know some things, too? I saw a documentary with Mrs Hudson some years ago, quite interesting." And then he added "In my eyes people who stay out during bombardment to protect others are heroes, loads of them female by the way."

Molly smiled at him. "That's really interesting. So they were not doing some Nazi stuff there?"

"No…. at least we found no evidence for that. We think the rest of the group found her dead and got so anxious they cleaned up and left without telling anyone, afraid of being accused for carelessness or murder."

"Oh, it's sad." Molly murmured. "Not really what friends should do, isn't it….. I am sure of the course of death but there are some odd marks on her thigh I didn't recognize…. But according how they look they must have happened shortly before her death."

"Show me." Sherlock ordered and Molly flapped back the covers.

"John?" Sherlock signalled him to come closer and have a look, that had not happened since their first case, the lady in pink. John stepped closer and felt his steps were uneven, slightly limping. Shit.

John looked down at the patterns. "Oh, yes, that looks…. odd." John said, not sure what Sherlock expected, but then he remembered some of the old machinery stands in the warehouse. Sherlock must have recognized them, too. Why was he asking him?

"Sherlock?" the doctor looked up and waited for an explanation but the other man went down to her feet, looking for more bruises. John wondered if Sherlock was testing him. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What are you on? Wanting me to state the obvious?"

"Obvious?"

"Yes. Those marks are from the iron stand of the really old machine, which looked like it belonged into a museum, quite nice actually."

"No, where?"

"Across the hall, left side, near the column in the back."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, of course." John said carefully. Was Sherlock really this unconcentrated? If he was he did a hell of a job covering it up.

"Oh." Sherlock looked actually ashamed. "Then she was probably 'hurt' during her arrest/discovery or she fought with someone. Could have been a part of the act. We need to find her 'friends'. Anything else of interest?"

"No." Molly said a bit regretful.

John watched Molly eyeing Sherlock intensely while he went over her soles with the magnifier. She seemed to scrutinize him, looked as if she wanted to say something but held back. They had formed a closer bond during Sherlock's hiatus, John remembered, maybe it would be good to give them a moment. "Anyone fancies a coffee?"

"Yes… no…." Sherlock answered in an odd absent tone.

"Yes." Molly said.

"Okay, I will get some. Will be back in a minute." John headed for the door. Sherlock looked uncomfortable but not near panic and John hurried out.

There are some copies of the autopsy pictures for you." Molly pointed at the desk.

"Yes." Sherlock approved "Thank you."

"Sherlock, you're alright?"

"Yes, of course." Why had John left him alone in such a situation? He did not have the need to 'talk'.

"Because you don't look alright." She had said that before. He wished she'd shut up. "You watch John as if he might get nicked any moment."

"He might does…. Was in fact some days ago, I am sure you remember. We still don't know who did it."

"You look really bad."

"I am not supposed to say anything to a remark like that, am I?" Since Molly said it she would know what the socially right interaction would be.

"No…. you just file it as a sign of care and affection from another person, it means they want to help and be nice." She explained, having learned he asked because he really did not know, not to make fun of her.

"Oh." Sherlock knew he should have put gratitude into his tone but it was too much effort. Where was John? He was tired, the night had not been restorative and he was still not in the best of moods.

"You know you can still come to me… if there is something I can do…... We did this before. I am still here, you can always come to me. I will help."

"I know. Thank you Molly." This time he managed to smile vaguely at her and she smiled back.

The next ten minutes was spent in uneasy silence. They found nothing new and Molly covered the body again, signalling she would do the rest alone.

When she had slipped out of her paper cloth and the gloves she washed her hands. Sherlock had sat down over the pictures of the crime scene on the desk and watched them in detail.

Molly tipped his shoulder to make him look up to her and when he did she took his head in her hands and looked into his eyes directly. He stiffened but to her amazement didn't yell at her and didn't shove her aside.

"You take care of yourself and …. Keep your head above the water, yes?"

Sherlock tried to wind out of her grip, which was not very tight, but she held on.

"Promise me, Sherlock…."

"Okay." He hissed in a clearly not welcoming tone.

"Good." She ignored his resentment and smiled, then kissed him on his hairline. Sherlock frowned but did nothing about it.

Three seconds later John came in the door with three cups of the good coffee in a molded pulp cup holder.

"Did I miss anything."

The fast and hasty replies he got from both Molly and Sherlock made it quite clear he had indeed missed something, though nothing about the case.

"Let's get to the lab." Molly suggested and Sherlock fetched the files.

They spend the next three hours analysing the samples Molly had taken.

It was past nine o'clock and they were almost finished when she stated she wanted to go home now. They had found some expensive make-up and residues of substances that were used in the fabric-warehouse during it's time of use but nothing new or no further clues. Sherlock was getting really impatient and John decided it would be best for them all to go home before Sherlock started yelling and insulting them even more than he had already.

Sherlock was not easily convinced but finally came with him.

...

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_A/N: Thank you for reading._


	28. Chapter 28

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

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**Chapter 28**

**Tuesday, almost noon**

Lestrade called shortly after John had a shower in the late morning.

Sherlock had obviously spent the night experimenting on something and texted Lestrade his findings before John got up.

"No, I won't come… Yes, text me when you find something… Yes… Yes… No… If you must…. "

John was listening to Sherlock's conversation with Lestrade. Why weren't they going? This was not like Sherlock he thought once more.

"Yes…. Yes…. That's no business of yours….. Yes." Sherlock hung up.

"What's no business of his?"

"That's no business of yours."

"Oh, I so hope that is not turning into a standard phrase here." John said in a sing-song voice.

"It might."

"Then I might kick your ass." John said in a half joking tone, sing-song again.

"Five, John."

John needed about ten seconds to understand it was the level of interest for cases, sort of Sherlock's scale, in which cases were sorted into. _Five_ meant not worth leaving the house.

"Really?.. Go have a shower then…. and take your meds."

"Yes, Mum." Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

John smiled. This was actually a bit back to old times, Sherlock unnerved, them joking… this was good.

John had cancelled meeting Lestrade last night, who had offered to come over the day before. But they had all been tired last night and John had really needed to sleep. He had barely managed to speak to Mary for ten minutes before falling asleep fully clothed.

He had slept well, the sounds of Sherlock experimenting downstairs and talking to him as if he was in the room had something good and soothing in it. He had left the door wide open to hear him actually. But the backside was Sherlock hadn't probably slept at all.

.

In the late hours of the afternoon Lestrade came over to entertain Sherlock with the details of the veterinary student's case.

John decided to use the time Sherlock was busy to finally call Ella Thomson and ask a few professional things about how to help Sherlock, while he was sure Lestrade would keep him busy and prevent him from eavesdropping.

John had asked Greg to yell if he wanted to leave and told him about the planned call when Sherlock wasn't listening for a moment. Greg had agreed.

John was not sure if Ella would agree to do this, and as it turned out she was not eager but she did, having heard quite a lot about Sherlock she was at least a bit in the picture. She told him things to look out for and gave him advice for how to act in different situations. She was well aware 'normal' procedures that would comfort the average person would most likely not work with the detective. She suggested a few things and strategies to help Sherlock with the damaged mind palace and told John to bring Sherlock in of course…. and that he had done a good job so far… but she also told him this might be heading towards PTSD and that Sherlock needed meds and therapy.

They discussed things for over an hour and John was very grateful for all the advice she gave him. They made a date for the next week to meet, defining they would speak about John's issues with the topic. She offered to do 'Sherlock'-sessions if needed after John convinced her this was the only way she could indirectly help.

When he returned to the living room Lestrade and Sherlock had both a beer in their hands and two empty bottles were already on the living room table.

"Is it that late already?" John asked.

"Maybe… We solved the veterinary student's case and I suggested we celebrate a bit, but Sherlock preferred to not go to a pub." Lestrade informed him as if this was totally new to him.

John raised his eyebrows. "Really?" John fetched a beer, too.

Though Sherlock seemed to be at the end of his second beer it had done nothing to loosen his tongue or lighten his mood, yet.

Lestrade explained they had found the friends of the girl and they had told them every detail about how it had happened. Sherlock looked demonstratively bored, no doubt he had heard that in detail during the last hour.

Another ten minutes later John was roughly up to date and Sherlock had started his third beer. Drinking alcohol was so much not like him John wondered how to proceed. He had planned to do another mind palace session with Sherlock tonight.

Greg went home shortly after that and John finally managed to make a silent Sherlock get up and head to his bedroom after trying for almost fifteen minutes.

Sherlock stated he did not want or need to sleep and John tried to just make him sit down for a bit.

The slim and pale man had dark circles under his eyes and the beer had made him even more silent than he had been overall in the past days.

Sherlock seemed to head for his bed but instead of falling into it he fell to his knees in the messy pile of blankets that were still on the ground. John didn't hesitate and sat down next to him.

"Let's get you settled." He said but and Sherlock mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Get out."

John ignored him and just waited what his friend would do.

After almost ten minutes of pulling this blanket here and that pillow there he settled down with the open violin case next to him.

"Close your eyes, Sherlock." John said in a soft tone.

"What do you want? Go to the kitchen. I am tired."

John hoped Sherlock was just disinhibited enough to make this work.

"I want you to close your eyes…. good idea if you really are tired….."

"I …"

"Shut up and close your eyes." John interrupted.

Though Sherlock pushed forward his lower lips in a sulky expression he did close his eyes.

"That's it…. I want to see the palace again. Tell me about it."

"Can't you just move your lazy bottom and take a look around for yourself?" Sherlock answered totally unexpectedly. He seemed to have forgotten the fact that John was not actually able to enter his mind palace. John sat there with his mouth open for a few seconds, not used to Sherlock using this kind of language.

"I need your guidance."

"I want to sleep."

"No….. Let's go somewhere fun. Don't you have nice places in there?"

"Nice is not what ….."

"Oh, come on, there must be something cool or something you really like or….."

"No."

"You just don't want to show it to me."

"Right."

"Let's go to the space age level then."

"No."

Sherlock turned his back towards him and John was afraid he might be shoved away soon if he proceeded like this.

"What's in the cellar?" John asked innocently, more as a joke than because of interest. "Jam, bottled fruit and mixed pickles?"

"No need to go there, there's only Moriarty's cell down there."

"What? He has a cell in your Mind Palace?" This made John gasp in surprise and turn sober immediately.

"Yeah, need to contain him somehow, can't risk him running around, can I?"

"There are people in there?"

"Sometimes, not as a basic setting though."

"Then how?"

"They come in here to kick _my_ butt when I'm lazy or …."

"You are never lazy Sherlock, you would be _bored_ within two minutes while being lazy and therefore you'd stop it. You have never been lazy…. So what was it you try to cloak…?"

"Eh…. I meant not-managing-to-keep-myself-going."

"Oh, and you translated that into 'lazy'?"

"No, others did. Told me I was lazy when I couldn't manage… things."

"When you were a child?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Who's in there?" John poked.

"Everybody who or when I need his / her expertise on something, or certain qualities."

"Like?"

"When I need somebody to sneer at me a Palace-Version of Mycroft tends to make an appearance."

John giggled.

"How does it work?"

"They are images generated by the database I established about a person, with all their patterns of behaviour, knowledge, rhythms, and schemes of movements, etc."

"Am I in there sometimes, too?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"I am not?"

"I need you more on the outside. Sometimes I chose to ignore it but your voice is constantly hear-able in here, though."

"So my voice is there but I am not? I don't get it." John knew now he was getting somewhere.

"Me neither….It's different than with the other 'guests' in there. Maybe it is like an anchor, like a direct line? I can constantly hear you…. It wasn't always like this." Sherlock had settled into his standard deep-in-thoughts-position. "Now, when I am outside the palace in reality I can hear you from inside it, as if your Palace-Version is talking to me, when I am inside it I can always here you, although I hear nothing else from the real world, needless to say you need to be within hearing distance."

"Is that why you talk to me when I am not physically there? I always thought you did it because you didn't realized I went to work or so."

Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't know. John had indeed told him that he did that, from the beginning of them being flatmates in fact.

"What else is in the cellar?" John tried to gently return to that theme, it felt important.

"Vault."

"What for do you need a vault?"

"Put things in there I want to keep inside."

Interesting, not to keep them safe, then?

"Like things that are precious to you and you don't want to be touched?"

Sherlock was silent for long moments and John wondered if he had pushed to fast to far. Sherlock seemed to be allowing himself to go with this though.

"No."

"What else would you put into a vault?"

"Things I want to keep inside."

"Why don't you put those in something like …. a prison?"

"I…."

But after fifteen seconds found no explanation.

"What did you put in there?"

"No…."

"Sherlock, this is not dangerous, we are just looking around. None is entering the vault, we are just discussing it's contents."

"It's not in there any longer."

"What?"

"I made the vault to keep the ….. ghosts contained but they slip out every time." Sherlock mumbled sounding very tired now.

"Ghosts of what?"

"Wisps of memories."

"What are the memories about?"

"I …." Sherlock's breathing sped up.

"We are safe here, but to be safe in the future I must know what the things are that are labelled not-good here." John tried to not use dangerous words. "We are absolutely safe… memories can't assault us."

"I … they escape as soon as I turn my back on them… then they scurry through the palace and cause further damage…. Or they attack me when I sleep."

So Sherlock was talking about bad memories. It was actually something that _was_ used in trauma therapy. A vault to contain things securely. Sherlock's mind had created that surrounding by instinct, which was once more making John appreciate the great mind that Sherlock was. This was actually amazing. The detective's mind trying to do the right things instinctively on it's own.

"Vault is good. Why do they escape? Is it damaged, too?"

"No…. I don't know why. Built a new and better vault for them….. equipped it with the best technology… but they manage… I am out of ideas. I don't know how they get out."

"Okay. Let's take a closer look at that. You built it?"

"Yes, whole new level, extra thick concrete, steel walls and high security code locks. Second level protection with more doors and vacuum room…."

"You seemed to spent quite some time planning that new level. When did you built it?"

"Some days ago."

Oh. John was a bit lost. He was sure Sherlock was talking about keeping the memories of the torture at bay but if Sherlock had done so much effort to contain them and had failed what was _he_ about to do?

"Maybe they moved around in the vault freely and manage to get out by their momentum." It was total nonsense but John needed to keep them working on the problem. "Have you tried to tie every one of them to a wall? I mean separate them from each other and contain them in singles so they can't work as a whole?"

"Oh!" This sounded as if Sherlock had not tried that yet… and if he considered trying it, but John needed a clearer image.

"How did you put them in there?"

"Ball of dark and humming….. swarm, sticky…. difficult to hold. Left that mass in there, shut the doors. Locked them, locked additional locks and doors."

"Okay. Let's untangle the mass into individual memories and store them according to their danger and difficulty level." John suggested, till tense, fearing Sherlock might kick him out of the palace every minute.

"Where's the swarm now?"

"I don't know."

"Let's go find it then."

"Would take ages to search manually…"

"How else can you search."

"Call a memory I know belongs in there….. " Sherlock answered, hesitating and John wondered if he meant to intentionally remember bad stuff. He was not sure this was the best of ideas. But three seconds later Sherlock flinched and his face scrunched into a visualisation of pain. Sherlock took a deep breath through his teeth.

"The Serbian cellar memories are partially at ….. level four, third room to the right…. Hovering behind a model of some of Jansen's kinetic Strandbeests."

"What beasts?"

"Oh, ask youtube, they are amazing….. but…." Sherlock's features contained not only pain but also horror now.

"Wait, don't go after them alone. What form are those memories in right now?"

"Swarm… like a swarm of bees who has moved out of their hive."

"So how does the beekeeper move them back?"

"Picks them up with a special box or sucks them in with a vacuum ….. sucking device."

"What does it look like would work?"

Sherlock flinched again. "They have moved into the kinetic creature."

"What?"

"I can't pluck them without damaging the Strandbeests."

"What is it? Is it alive? Is it valuable?"

"I….. I need some apiarist equipment, it's on the third level, twenty-sixth room on the right."

"Blimey." This was more complex than John had thought.

"What do you plan to do?"

"Catch them with the Beest and put it all into the box and then put the box into the vault." "That won't work, you did that before, right?"

"Not with the box, maybe they will like it in there with the Beest and stay put."

"No they won't. They will damage the beast and move on. We need to dismantle them bit by bit. Like separating the swarm of bees an put every bee in a single little box of it's own."

Sherlock gulped and shook his head, probably without realizing his body was actually doing it physically. His breathing was speeding up.

"I will help you with this. It will take time but I think it is a new strategy that needs trying."

"What's the room you found them in like? Can we sort them out here or do we need to go somewhere else. A tiny space without much corners to hide would probably be good."

"Not here…. Conservatory, loft level."

"Right. Put them in the box and then let's go… Does the mind palace actually have an outside-area?"

"No…. it's just 'insides'."

"Yeah, but aren't there windows?"

"There are and light is getting in but I can't look outside… it's just light and darkness out there. It has no outside. Never needed one…. It's carved into space."

John did not really understood but it didn't matter… there was no outside, period.

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_A/N: Thank you for reading and special thanks to all the kind souls who left reviews for me before :)_


	29. Chapter 29

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Thanks to all the great and kind readers who take their time to read my stories and leave a review for me. _ …

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**Chapter 29**

**Tuesday night - In the MindPalace**

Sherlock reached for the box and tried to maneuver the model of the Strandbeest (he had built it after he had seen Jansen's beautiful work in his late teens) inside, but the model was too large. He could fetch a larger box…. Oh, for god's sake, since when was the palace so clumsy?! Usually boxes refitted in size automatically and he had _never_ encountered this kind of ridiculous everyday problems in here.

Shrink the object or enlarge the box, why didn't it work?…. If this thing went on he would need to get a lifting cart next to lift the box. He growled in frustration. This was not supposed to be troublesome and logistically difficult, this was his _mind_, it was shaped and reformed to _his _bloody needs!

"Sherlock, what is it."

"Palace is behaving stupid."

"What?… In what way?"

"It's developing real-life physics, I can't fit the box and I can't shrink the Beest."

"You normally do that?…. Of course you do, sorry, stupid question."

Sherlock finally managed to fit the box to the object and now found he didn't want to touch the swarm of ugliness. He fetched his gloves and with them managed to shove and drag the thing into the box, glad it had feet and walked with him.

He closed the box and started dragging it behind himself, feeling like a five-year-old playing with his parent's old suitcases…. As soon as he was out the door he managed to transfer himself and the box to the winter garden in the loft level.

"Hey, what's happening, keep me in the loop." John demanded.

"I am at the winter garden now."

He opened the box and flinched. "The insides of the box have been covered in slime all over."

"Er… okay."

"What do I do now?" He was lost, not eager to touch the stuff, his instinct told him to flee.

"Get settled, sit down, carefully remove the box, look at the thing."

"I am not sure…."

"Do it, I am with you, go ahead. What does it look like?"

Sherlock did not dare to sit, he needed the option to be able run away fast.

"It…. It shifts constantly. Right now it's like a mass of slimy quivering rubber bands behaving like a deformed ball of mealworms, slightly semi-gaseous and smelly."

"Careful, smell is very often an intense trigger…. Certain smells and spices bring me back to the Afghanistan desert immediately…. Do you recognise the smell?"

When Sherlock turned his attention on the smell he realized it smelled not like mealworms usually did…. Shit, it smelled like piss and sweat…. His own sweat to be precise…. He had smelled like that in the torture-chamber. He realized it was getting darker and his throat was constricting with retching.

"Shit….. come back to me for a moment, Sherlock…. Open your eyes…. come on." John's caring and soothing voice echoed through the high-ceilinged room.

Sherlock blinked and gagged. John held a towel but apparently nothing had come up and he battered the reflex away. He felt shaky.

"You're okay?….. "

"Mmn…" He mumbled, face contorted with disgust. Not wanting to share this detail….

"What did you smell?"

Sherlock feared he would throw up if he talked about it.

"Come on…. I can't help if I don't know what's happening."

"Mm…. Myself in the cell. Days of old sweat, blood, urine….. Oh, god…" He dry heaved once more.

"It's okay, try to calm down. Do some deep breaths….. Here it smells like your room, concentrate on the smell of home and safe for a moment….. That's good. Just let the feeling wash over you, it will pass…. What smells do you actually like?"

"I don't like smells, they smell."

"Oh, come on. There must be things you smelled during your life and though 'that is nice' especially as a child….. or try to think of those that made you feel safe."

"Yes…. Safe….. library, Jasmine tree….. Ginger Tea…. Bow resin… " Sherlock tried to sit up.

"No, no, stay there, we need to go back."

The unnerved and partially desperate look on Sherlock's face made John wince in sympathy.

"We need a way to deal with that smell for a bit…. Keep it at bay…. Come on, go back to the winter garden….."

Sherlock closed his eyes and did as John told him, he was to tired and too exhausted to baulk and it felt kind of better in the mind palace with John's presence there. There was no image of John's body in the mind palace walking with him, he just heard him like from the speakers of John's own intercom system. He had not consciously built in or summoned the thing, it had just grown into the palace slowly in the past somewhere.

He entered the loft again and found the mass besides the shoved away box. Thank heaven the thing had not moved somewhere else during his absence.

"You're there?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Okay, how do you usually cope with bad smells from bodies?"

"I don't do that, I ignore them."

"Yeah, but you can't now, so how to deal with this? Maybe we can put something smelling good inside a dust mask?…. What would you put in there, then?"

Sherlock held the mask and stared at it. Not putting something in there he really liked because it would mix with the triggering smells and then he would be disgusted by it later because he associated the mixture of the smells with …. The smell of the cell, too….. something strong but neutral….

"Basil leaves, one in the mouth, one pricked leave inside the mask."

"How about tiger balm or vap-o-rub?"

"No, burns my nostrils."

"Oh, right. So put it on and return to that swarm."

Sherlock turned towards the diffuse form that was still clinging to the Strandbeest model.

"It's like a swarm of bees now, tiny elements, constantly moving, clinging to each other, but not a solid body….." Was there a black hole in the middle? It felt like something was sucked out of the room by the thing.

"Do you think you could carefully pluck out one of the tiny elements and take a closer look at it? Try maybe to concentrate on the mealworm form, maybe it will come back, those should be easy so separate and are not dangerous."

Sherlock scrunched his face in disgust, why was this so difficult? He felt like being asked to disarm the bomb train again, afraid to move, to touch, to disturb, to act at all and time was running out. Usually he was not disturbed by ugly things… not even by maggots crawling on a corpse. His tolerance of nasty things was high. What had changed?

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

John poked, sounding as if he had asked several times already.

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay, good. Can you try to pluck an element so we can dismantle the thing piece by piece…. You know the single parts inspected closely are not as dangerous as it might look in the whole. Like the monster in a horror movie, it's scarier in the dark when only seen partially. As soon as you see it in whole and in normal daylight it's a lot less scarier."

"You compare this to horror movies?"

"No. I try to describe the effect a close inspection and bright light on a single aspect has. I am trying to convince you to dissect the thing. So try to carefully cull an element. Stop immediately if something is odd."

Sherlock put on his gloves again, and stepped closer, the thing was humming and still looking like mealworm-bees covered in slimy grime. Then he fumbled for his pair of pincers and tried to get hold of one of the quivering things. It felt surprisingly solid, like a rubber ball but was not easy to pull free, as if it was clinging to the mass with tiny tentacles, that threaded when he pulled. He tried to concentrate on the basil smell and refused to smell all the other stuff.

He plucked it out and when it came free, he was so surprised by the movement he dropped it.

When he picked it up and inspected the object it was the cut out part of an apple…

"What is it?" John urged.

"Oh, interesting. The letter 'U' that Moriarty had cut out of the 'IOU'-apple in the living room. He besmirched our home being here."

"So this is an object you are angry about?"

"I… I don't know. Maybe ….. it feels not good that he was in here."

"So, can you think of a way to destroy this thing for ever?…. you could cook it and eat it."

"No, it feels poisonous."

"Well, then maybe mince it and burn it and finally wash it away in the sink?"

"Okay. Sink…." He turned to the lab sink and burned the piece of fruit over a Bunsen burner, then washed away the remains. "Successfully burned to mousse and washed away."

"Go on. Next one, stay careful."

Sherlock tried to pluck another rubber band element out of the hovering mass but when he pulled now the whole swarm followed and he did a surprised step backwards. He must have flinched because he heard John's surprise "Oi. Sherlock, what happened?"

"It… It moved with the element I pulled, it's hovering free in the room now, separated from the Beest."

"Well, that's at least one thing, you like that model, don't you?"

"Yes….."

"Try another one if this does not comes free easily."

Sherlock did and that one behaved actually like a rubber band, it stretched and made him wonder what would happen if it whipped back. Not sure he wanted to know. Try another one. The third came free easily indeed, like it had a rotten base.

"This looks like….. one of the decorative elements of Irene's phone…. What is that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe you despise the fact that you liked her and that she was working with Moriarty and that is kind of a conflict? The phone stands for her betrayal somehow, doesn't it?" John provided.

"It's metal, I will melt it."

"Yes, alright, but that won't make it useless…. Maybe you should cast it in lead or rubber or glass after melting it."

"Rubber or galantine might be good, something non-conducting."

"Good, go on."

Sherlock did and then John suggested he built a 'prison box' for the tiny object, indestructible and suitable to be chained into the vault. And they did. The chain was bigger than the box that finally had a size of about fifteen centimetres in height and width….. the element of the phone had been about a centimetre in length and one and a half in height. He wondered how many vaults he'd need to built, if they continued this they would need many many more… and years to dissect only this one swarm…. John seemed to sense his thoughts.

"Hang on, one more, then we will rest…. Wait, Moriarty is in a cell in the basement, right?"

"Yes."

"He ever escaped?"

"No."

"You realize that means he's staying contained in his cell, not able to get out?"

"Oh! …. Right, I haven't visited him, I just know he is in there, never getting out …. and sometimes I hear him scoff at me."

"How about you built another one of those cells and we put the swarm in there before we leave?"

"Good idea."

"Do it before we touch the thing again…. How much time do you need?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Go on, built that cell and I make some tea, you need some liquids or you'll have a hangover tomorrow."

Why was John mixing comments about real flat elements into the conversation of palace elements? Disorder.

"Okay, make tea."

John's voice returned when Sherlock moved through the new padded door and checked the lock. The cell was now next to the vault and an exact copy of Moriarty's one, though it was shiny new and Sherlock was not sure how Jim's looked after he had been in there for two years.

"What's up, Sherlock? Ready to make another try?" He heard John sit down next to him again.

"Yes."

He neared the thing again, now deciding to move it and himself into the new cell and provide good lightning there. He was relieved when the swarm went into the cell with him, he dragged it carefully with himself by the pincers, the not coming free element from before proving helpful, in contrast to most of the other elements of the mass it did not move constantly and dived into the dark object for long periods of time.

"I moved the swarm and myself into the new cell."

"Oh, good."

Sherlock once more slipped into the gloves and put on the basil dusk mask, then took the pincers from the movable storage container.

He pulled out a large mealworm formed thing that twitched in the grip of the tweezers. Seconds later he pinched his eyes closed when he realized what it was. He tried not to flinch and not to let it fall.

"Sherlock?… What is it?" John sounded as if his distress had not gone unnoticed.

He felt John's fingers sneak around his wrist and his breath came in shallow gasps. He stood frozen, trying not to drop the bodyless rat tail.

"Jesus, Sherlock, tell me what's happening."

"One of my ….. tormenters clipped off the tail of one of the rats in my prison cell to demonstrate what he would do with my fingers if … I fell asleep. It bled to death in front of me."

He heard John breathe deeply and then John's fingers moved from his wrist towards his hand. Sherlock knew John wanted to comfort him but the feeling of nausea he had experienced back then and the fear for his fingers exploded in his mind.

"Don't …. touch my hands…. Please…. Don't."

He trusted John not to try it and opened his eyes in the palace to look at the thing and that way rob it of it's horrors. He had seen cut off animal limbs before and they had never caused this kind of distress in him.

The rat's blood dripped off the disembodied tail and the smell of rotting blood entered his nostrils again. He felt his body gag again and tried to distance himself from his transport's input, it worked only partially.

Then something changed with his body outside the mind palace. A heavy hand on his head, gently pressing down. Body tensing with another bout of retching.

"Sherlock, can you put the tail into a safe container and come back to me?" John's voice echoed through the room, it was calm and steady but Sherlock recognized the distress hidden in it.

"Ye…" he breathed and hurried to carry the disgusting thing over and put it into a metal container, then poured CH2O over it and closed the metal lid. Ziptie around it to keep the lid in place and another one to secure it on the rack temporarily. He stumbled backwards against the wall and out the door, then locked it and left the palace.

When he opened his eyes he was half on his side and half on his back, sprawled out across the floor, John was kneeling over him, still one hand on his forehead, the other one at his pulse in his neck. Sherlock was panting slightly and a mercifully completely dry towel was under his face.

John looked at him fondly. "You're with me?" He let go of his neck and Sherlock nodded, breathing through his mouth.

"Tedious…. Put it in formaldehyde, locked it all inside the cell, bound to a shelf….."

"Good. I know this might not feel good right now but I think we made real progress with this today."

"Please don't start to talk like a therapist." Sherlock muttered, distasteful choice of words.

"Yeah… didn't meant to, sorry. We reclaimed some ground, that's good."

Sherlock huffed out a breath, this was indeed better.

"So when you start slipping into sleep this is what haunts you?" John didn't wait for an answer. "What else did they do to keep you from sleeping?"

"Chained me to opposite walls, relaxing my muscles to much meant hurting my shoulders…. Risking dislocating them maybe…. Hit me when I slept on my feet, too…. Punishment depended on who was on duty."

"So they punished you for falling asleep and for being asleep and you tried not to for days. Sleep deprivation. Must have been bad."

"John, no therapist pity talk, please! Torture is not meant to be nice, just doing the job with whatever means necessary. Glad they didn't cut off anything vital or choose to waterboard me _before_ Mycroft arrived."

"What not-vital thing did they cut off then…?" John asked hesitantly, his eyebrows drawn together.

"They discussed cutting off my fingers, threatening me with it but I am sure they would have proceeded that way soon." Sherlock ignored the question.

"Okay. I imagine it was really high on a fucking-bad-experience scale, therefore…. You need rest, Sherlock…. Give your body the chance to recuperate. Would you like me to switch you off to get some sleep for a change?"

"No."

"What would do you good?…. What can I do to assist you?"

"Nothing…. I don' know."

"Then how about you deduce something?"

John went into the kitchen and came back with a mug of tea and some bottles of water a few seconds later.

"Here."

They sat there for a few minutes in silence, drinking tea on the floor, both dwelling on their own thoughts about that session.

Sherlock put the empty mug down on the floor and then drank half a bottle of water.

He was tired… nights without sleep, beer, …_this_ …. Not the best choice of modus operandi. He closed his eyes trying to relax for a moment. Dull pressure in his head. He found he was absentmindedly rubbing his yingtang, the point between the eyebrows. He had learned quite a lot about those points during his time in the temple… and now rummaged through the knowledge…. Right, the translation of the word says 'Hall of Impression'… Great! He felt betrayed by his transport once more…. his mind felt stripped of it's good qualities, raw and sore. Applegreen sarcasm rushed over the tip of his tongue. He drank some more water, just to dwell on the delusion that he was able to wash the feeling away for a bit…. Shoving the negative stuff away for a bit…..

John accompanying him into the palace was … odd…. and interesting. John wandered paths he never thought of or found …. Sentiment-paths, maybe?

John must have leaned how to do such things with PTSD over time…. He was a good guidance with this.

He gasped when his hand did a hypnic jerk and it made him realize he was on the way to slip into sleep. Panic poured into his mind once more with the approaching sleep.

"Just do it, go to sleep. I will sit here and make sure you are safe, just sleep… come on. You can manage… I will stand guard and do sentry duty."

His eyelids were heavy, the suggestion lulling him in, John's calm and soft tone inviting. So tired….. something soft was dragged over him.

"Come on, you're already on the brink of sleep, just let go." John tried to coax him into relaxing. He trusted John and he tried to let himself fall directly into sopor without a detour through light sleep.

Seconds after he had finally managed to drop off a new wave of panic jerked through him and he gasped, resurfacing to full consciousness.

"It's all fine, you can sleep." John made his constant presence known. … and he willed himself to go back and try again.

This time it took longer to get into the semi-sleep position from which to just drop into real sleep. He was hesitating, trying to control the crossover as far as he could, he had used that to go to sleep for years*, it had never been easy even before Serbia, but now it was even more of an ordeal.

Emotions crept into him and demons flooded his mind as soon as his consciousness tried to drip off into the surface of sleep, they were bad emotions and they made him feel like drowning.

He jerked awake once more, gasping for breath…. Nausea accompanied the mist of horror that flooded him this time. He was still gasping for breath a minute later when he realized John had his arm over his shoulder and he was in a sitting position. John was talking.

"That's it, breathe…. Slowly…. Slow down… deep breaths….You think putting on some music would help? You could try to concentrate on that."

Sherlock shook his head, music had never really worked, except for napping because his mind constantly listened to the music and it prevented sopor that way. John gently pushed him back into the blankets, although he himself was just thinking about getting up and doing something useful.

"I'll be back in a minute. Stay put."

Sherlock tried to calm down further, dinking some more water from another bottle.

The microwave pinged and John came back with an object that looked like a small pillow.

"What is that for?"

"It's a grain pillow."

"What?… What is it for?"

"Relaxation. Lay down. Close your eyes."

"What for? No." He needed to know what John planned to do and why.

"Er, sorry. I warmed it and you can put it wherever you want it." He held out the thing and Sherlock took it, lying down and putting it on his chest, it was not hot, a bit over body temperature, cosy.

"It's like a hotty, but you can shape it…. And it keeps the form you put it in, to a certain degree."

"It's a bit cool for a hot water bottle surrogate."

"Yes, you chose the heat level according to where you want to put it."

"I want it on my chest."

"Yes, alright."

The thing was certainly heavier than a bottle and the weight felt good on his chest. He tried to steel himself for the next try. He was so very tired his lids hurt from being open.

This time he reached the drop off point quickly but then stood there hesitating. When he finally managed to slipped under the surface and the panic rose he tried to let it wash over him and ignore it, he felt his body resisting though, tensing up … and then he distantly felt the weight was transferred from his chest to his head, something heavy on his forehead and hairline.

"Go to sleep." John whispered.

Moments later two of John's fingers moved under the grain pillow and started to press onto his yingtang point.

He panted softly, a bit overwhelmed with the intensity of the touch and it's effect on his body. It felt like something was sucked out somewhere and when he exhaled once more through his open mouth he felt his body shoved out tension with it.

He had no time to analyse what exactly was happening because his body dragged him towards sleep on it's own.

He slept.

….

* * *

….

**_A/N:_**

_*read my story 'The mystery of finding sleep' for a more detailed version of my theory how his technique to find sleep might work, if you are interested._

_Please let me know what you think and write a review!_


	30. Chapter 30

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Thanks to all the great and kind readers who take their time to read my stories and leave a review for me._

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* * *

...

**Chapter 30**

**Wednesday**

John stayed in Sherlock's room the rest of the night. Though he took a break to contact Mary, and when he finally became to tired to read he lay down on Sherlock's bed, wondering why Sherlock preferred to sleep on the ground.

While he looked over the edge at Sherlock's sleeping form he went through the Mind Palace session from before. This had been really amazing.

He had known Sherlock coped with severe stuff better than the average person, well, maybe sometimes the doctor had thought Sherlock was just to cold or being better at pushing stuff away and suppress emotions. But the last days had proved that to be wrong for the moment. It seemed his mind has really effective self-healing powers in general. That ability probably took care of things, maybe without Sherlock even realizing it, but why was this healing process so disturbed now?

Was it plainly overworked?… Or could the damaged palace also translate into damaged self-healing? Or maybe Sherlock had just buried to much there in the past years and finally there was a last straw that was too much?… John feared he was deeply involved in the last straw…. or maybe _he_ was the final straw himself…. He felt actually a bit guilty about it, although his head knew this was bullshit. It was not _his_ fault… He was the one who did the least to add to the shit that had finally hit the fan…. it was a long line of small disasters and wrong decisions… and none's fault, except Moriarty's!… Hell, why hadn't Sherlock just told him…? This was still haunting and hurting him…. and it would for quite some more time he feared.

But right now he needed to figure out how to keep a close eye on Sherlock when he needed to return to work next week.

How to organize this? He'd need some detective-sitters for the upcoming weeks. Mrs Hudson would help, Lestrade had offered it, too. He would need to coordinate with them carefully… and he expected Sherlock won't like it.

.

They both slept through the night without further incidences.

Until Mrs Hudson softly yelled that she had brought tea from the living room.

John stood up and went to greet her, Sherlock didn't even stir.

"Hi."

"John? What happened?" She asked him when he came out of Sherlock's room in rumpled clothes, probably with his hair wild and sleep in his eyes.

"He had a lousy night, I stayed with him." John mumbled.

"Oh, dear. That bad?"

John just nodded.

She had been away to get some peace and quiet because all the reporters and people that had besieged the house after Sherlock's return had been really exhausting. She had not been able to get the shopping done because reporters had followed her and tried to question her. So shortly after John had arrived to stay over she felt Sherlock was watched after and had left to see some relatives.

"Tea?" She offered.

"Yes, thanks." John rubbed his eyes.

When she handed him a full cup John sat down in his chair and decided to ask right away.

"Er, he…. he is having a hard time and I wondered if you were home next week while I am at the surgery…. just to see what he is doing twice a day and see if he is fine…."

"That bad?" Mrs Hudson asked again and sat down, too, in Sherlock's chair, she looked really worried now. "You wouldn't ask if you weren't sure it was needed… I know…. I will be home."

"You can call me or Greg at any time."

"Of course. I'll be here. Will you…."

She was interrupted by the ringing of Sherlock's phone in the bedroom. Seconds later Sherlock answered and then came out of his room, still dressed in his dress pants and shirt, which looked really messed up.

Mrs Hudson frowned.

"Boys, can't you even manage to change properly for the night alone?"

"The night kind of caught us off-guard, I was glad he slept I didn't want to interrupt that in any way…." John whispered an explanation while Sherlock was obviously talking to Lestrade.

"Yes….. We are on our way….. Yes…" He turned back around and while he continued talking went back into his room and closed the door.

John finished his tea and they did some more small talk until five minutes later Sherlock appeared again, fully dressed in clean and neat clothes.

"That's much better, at least partially." Mrs Hudson praised and held out a cup of tea, which the detective gratefully took.

"Better get dressed, John. New missing person, Lestrade is waiting at her flat."

"Oh, okay." John hurried up the stairs to get dressed.

.

Half an hour later they met Lestrade at the flat of the young woman who had just finished her first year as a nurse in the local hospital and had been missing for two nights now. Sherlock catalogued the flat in minute detail without speaking or pointing out anything. Lestrade again looked troubled with Sherlock and in a quiet moment John asked him about keeping an eye on him in the upcoming week and keeping him busy, to which the DI agreed.

After almost two hours of inspecting the crime scene they went to the Yard with Greg to join a meeting about the case with the heads of other departments that were involved.

When the topic of monitoring the flat arose Sherlock spoke for the first time. It had been decided to keep the flat under surveillance beginning in three days. No matter what he said Sherlock couldn't change the fact that the upcoming three nights the flat would not be observed, there still was another important case that was drawing manpower away. Sherlock agreed tonight there would be no need, but tomorrow he explained it was important, they told him it was unfortunate, but there was no other way.

John already knew what that meant. They would do the two nights. Greg tried to interfere and was on Sherlock side to try to get personal for the other two nights but it was no use. He finally promised to try to get someone else, but even after another hour of telephone calls (which Sherlock and John spent with evidence picture comparison of the flats of the former victims - they found nothing new) Greg found none free to do the surveillance. He even tried to find someone to cover up for him so he could do it himself, but his superior stopped that effort kindly hinting towards his position and that he was needed.

The new man seemed to be a good one, John had not really seen him before. The superintendent that John had punched before the fall no longer had the job and John was really glad about that fact, though he still was not sorry at all for hitting him in the face.

When they were about to go home Greg called them to his office.

"Okay, you both look like shit to such an extend that I wonder if releasing you from the case would be healthier."

Sherlock looked actually dumbstruck about that. John of course understood the comment as worry.

"I'll agree to let you do this under one condition: you tell me about _everything_ you plan and everything else that is happening at least roughly, so that I am in the picture about what is happening. Is your mobile broken somehow so you can't text, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head but kept his mouth shut and it began to feel more than odd.

"So why the hell don't you text any longer?" Greg sounded a bit not patient now and John realized he was not the only one getting no answers to his texts. He also wanted to know that answer.

"I was not in the mood." Sherlock answered stubbornly, his hands behind his back.

"That's bullshit." Greg raised his voice.

"My fingers are a bit stiff, until this slight malfunction is gone I prefer not to." Sherlock pressed out through gritted teeth.

"What?" John and Greg asked at the same time.

John immediately stepped closer but Sherlock's hands were still behind his back, hidden in the sleeves of the coat.

When John made a gesture to let him look Sherlock evaded the touch by doing a step backwards and his expression showed clearly he'd not allow that touch.

"Oh. You really mean that, this is not a stupid excuse?" Greg said, he was as startled as John was about that tiny fact. Sherlock's body language clearly said it was not an excuse, and the clenched jaw underlined the fact he was not eager to speak about it.

"Sorry." Greg muttered.

"I will do the texting… and you'll tell me to text the moment you find something! No more of that silent treatment concerning the case!" John addressed Sherlock who stayed quiet. At least his face was not saying 'no', it was as if he was just waiting for the conversation to end.

"Okay." Greg seemed to get that Sherlock was not willing to talk, probably out of frustration that he had found nothing. "We are all frustrated, Sherlock, you are not alone with this. It's okay, we can't always…"

"No, it's not!" Sherlock hissed angrily and then stormed out of the office, leaving a once more stunned John and Greg behind, the door banged shut after him.

"Jesus." Greg let himself fall into his office chair. "Has he been like that since you are staying with him?"

"No. In fact he has opened up a lot, well, a lot for a Holmes, and we are making some progress, but… this is getting to him more than he wants to admit. I better get after him…. Care to make another visit at the weekend?"

"Depends on how the case develops if I get some free time. I'll text."

"Right, okay. Thanks." John hurried out and when he passed Sally she pointed towards the exit and the staircases wordlessly with a resigned look.

John hurried down the stairs but when he reached the pavement Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He called but Sherlock didn't pick up.

'Thank your for waiting for me.' The doctor texted and cursing inwardly he headed towards the nearest underground station, it was already late afternoon and getting dark.

.

When John closed the front door of 221b and stepped into the hallway he stopped in surprise, screeching noises reached him from the flat above and he took a moment to listen. It sounded awful, like fingernails on a blackboard or an agonised animal.

What was Sherlock doing? He headed up the stairs, listening closely.

The noises were coming in different trebles and … oh god, his heart skipped a beat and he stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the stairs… it was the violin.

Horrified he froze, didn't know what to do. This didn't sound like anything John had ever heard coming from that instrument or from Sherlock.

It was not a song, definitely not, and not even the gone wrong try to play a piece… though it was a constant stream of dark sounds, it reminded him of experimental music he had heard during his time at school.

It sounded hollow and was disrupted by screeching noises that sounded as if Sherlock did something to the strings with too much force or the wrong direction or at the wrong point… well, something not good.

He listened… This was not a product of not being able, it was a product of emotion, John realized with even more worry.

When Irene had 'died' Sherlock had composed, a piece that broadcasted sorrow but had melancholic beauty and harmony, it had expressed something gentle and graceful although it was clearly sad…..

But this…. this was irritated, dark and kind of aimless.

Was this Sherlock broadcasting his feelings?

Was this why he hadn't played? Because he had feared it would sound like this?

Obviously he had not wanted anyone to hear it.

There was something else… Sherlock had said his fingers were stiff, but obviously not too stiff for this, this did not sound as it did because of clumsy fingers, maybe they were even helpful to produce this kind of noises.

The tones alternated between faster and slower in a constant long stream, the sore disharmony made John flinch several times.

God, it sounded ….. lost, uncontrollable ….. and like hidden anger inflicted on the instrument. John wondered if she was in danger, but no, Sherlock would never ever harm her.

Some stuttering sounds disrupted the low constant other ones and John felt his stomach clench…. This _actually_ sounded like someone crying, in deep grieve … and howling, disrupted by sobs and occasionally desperate tries to breathe in between.

He closed his eyes and listened more closely but was sure the sounds were solely caused by the instrument and the bow and Sherlock's fingers on the strings and the corpus…. Although there was a constant low humming which' source he couldn't identify.

John went up the last steps until he was on the landing.

He listened another minute and it made his heart hurt. The agony that poured through the flat was actually seeping into him, making him cold.

What should he do now?

If this was Sherlock's way of being emotional maybe he shouldn't disrupt it, he should allow Sherlock to get rid of the frustration in his own way, express it, grant it.

If he went in there Sherlock might stop and return to silently spiralling downwards to even more sinister areas, the man needed to get it out. This was somehow good, this _was_ getting something out, a step to deal with the mess and towards healing.

At least this was a relatively harmless way to get rid of the build-up frustration. John decided to get up to his room and listen closely for any signs of trouble.

.

Half an hour later his mobile rang. Sherlock's playing had intensified and John felt like watching a desperately crying child without being able to provide comfort or protect it.

He felt the need to go down there and hug Sherlock but that would probably be the worst thing he could do.

He picked up the phone.

"John?" It was Mrs Hudson. "Where are you?" Her voice was trembling a bit.

"In my room, upstairs."

"I …. Can you hear him?"

"Yes, of course, I know, it sounds dreadful."

"Shouldn't we do something?… I mean I tried but he kicked the door close in my face without speaking to me."

"You're okay? I mean did the door hit you?"

"No, no, I was still outside in the hall…. but… this is so sad. I can't stand it. Can't you do something?"

"Er… to be honest I think he needs to get this out of his system, it would do him good to vent like this until he is finished, maybe then I can try to pick up the pieces, but right now I'd prefer not to interfere."

"Oh, John… he is hurting so much."

"Yeah, but don't tell him and don't pity him."

"I won't, I won't…. but …. "

"How about you get out of the house for a bit?"

"Oh, what if…. the neighbours…"

"I will deal with them, just get some peace and quiet, we don't know how long this might take. I will watch him."

"Okay, I wanted to play bridge tonight, anyway. Good luck, dear."

"Thanks. See you." John hung up and blew out air slowly.

.

The ominous sounds continued for the next three and a bit awful hours, uninterrupted and varying in intensity.

John's nerves were a bit blank when they finally slowed down and some time later calmed and finally stopped altogether.

He had fought his own emotions and desperation during those hours and the mood was heavy on him, too. He had tried to read, answer mails and called Mary.

He felt so helpless and the urge to provide comfort was like something burning inside him. He wanted to help, he needed to help…. it was difficult that he could do nothing, although as a doctor he of course knew the feeling.

When the sounds finally stopped John waited another half hour before he carefully tiptoed down the stairs.

The sight that greeted him was more chaotic than he had expected.

The light was dim and only the standard lamp next to the armchairs was providing a bit of light.

Evidence pictures from the case that had been at the wall over the couch were hanging awry and several were damaged on the floor, as were papers and other stuff that was usually on the shelves. Pillows were also on the floor and it looked a bit as if someone had ransacked the room, though John was sure Sherlock had thrown or kicked things and made the chaos himself in his frustration.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch now, leaned sideways against the backrest, his back to John. One foot on the ground and one leg folded under him. His head was also leaning sideways against the backrest. He looked as if he had collapsed there after working himself into exhaustion.

John picked up some pillows and then rounded the coffee table. Sherlock did not react to his presence and John switched on the standard lamp under the smiley, then sat down on the table next to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes were closed but his breathing was laboured. He had the violin in his lab and was a bit curled around it, as if protecting it. The hand with the bow hung loosely down his side, the tip of the stick touched the ground limply.

John took in that picture.

Both, the violin and Sherlock looked spent and damaged… and hurt. One chord was torn and the hairs of the bow were mostly frazzled… Sherlock's own hair was a mess, too and he wore his blue dressing gown, which had two small lacerations on the front and a long fine bloody streak on the side of Sherlock's face made John frown.

"Sherlock?" He whispered. He was not sure how to proceed, this felt very delicate.

He gently pried the bow from Sherlock's hand … the wrong hand, usually he held it with his right. He carefully opened Sherlock's fingers and took the thing from him. Sherlock's didn't resist but he was not limb at all.

John leaned forward to get a glimpse at Sherlock's face, which was hidden because of the bowed head and his hair.

"Sherlock… I want you to lay down." He gently informed and gently started guiding him backwards. Sherlock followed the movement and leaned back, taking the violin with him by a hand wrapped around her neck.… until his head came to rest at the pillows.

Sherlock seemed not to care what was happening to his transport, he was just passive.

John fetched a blanket.

"I want to put the violin on the table next to you, okay?" When John gently lifted the detective's hand that held her to his chest Sherlock let go of the instrument after a short moment of resistance. Sherlock felt warm.

John carefully took her and placed her on the table, then covered Sherlock with the blanket and sat down again between them both.

He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist to feel his pulse once more, as so often before in the past days. The pulse was thready but the man did not react to the touch. John stretched out his fingers, with his flat hand, they followed not as easy as he'd have liked it, had Sherlock damaged his right hand during his time away? Why hadn't he seen this before? Sherlock was so damn good at hiding things. John took a closer look and very slowly and carefully examined the hand. But none of the fingers or bones had any bumps that indicated they had been broken recently, though John _could _feel a slight stiffness in the fingers.

John rested the back of his own hand against Sherlock's cheek, it felt like a light fever and Sherlock's face was extremely pale, the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than before… even his bones were looking sharper, but that was probably because he was so thin at the moment.

Sherlock's expression was an emotionless mask, not showing anything.

John decided to wait what would happen and headed towards the kitchen. He prepared a toast and fresh tea.

Leaning against his armchair he ate in silence with the plate in his hand.

He had not even finished the toast when he heard Sherlock's breathing change from to fast to the slower and deeper breaths of sleep.

He relaxed a bit, this was good, not pleasant but hopefully a step in the right direction, a step towards his old self.

He texted Mrs Hudson not to come up when she came home because Sherlock was asleep and half an hour later he retreated into his own room with his laptop and phone.

He left the door wide open to hear if Sherlock woke up and went to bed himself.

….

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_A/N: Thank you for reading and special thanks to all the kind readers who left reviews for me before :)_


	31. Chapter 31

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 31**

**Thursday**

When John woke in the morning it was almost eleven o'clock. He wondered briefly why his alarm hadn't woken him earlier. Still a bit dazed by sleep he sat up and listened, the flat was quiet, suspiously quiet. He hurried out of the bed and headed down the stairs, pulling a jumper over his head in the process.

The living room was a mess, the same state it had been in last night, and Sherlock wasn't there.

"Sherlock?"

John headed towards his bedroom, the door was wide open and there was none in there, too.

Shit.

John ran down the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes?" Came her voice from the laundry area, she appeared two seconds later in the door.

"Have you seen Sherlock?"

"I heard him come down the stairs, but I was still in my nighty, it was before nine. When I reached the hall to greet him he was already gone."

"Great!"

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know." John headed up the stairs again and she followed him.

The doctor fetched his mobile and wrote a text.

'Where are you? JW'

"Uh!" Mrs Hudson made an strained noise when she saw the mess in the room. "What has he done?"

"It wasn't like this when you tried to speak to him last night?"

"No!… Oh, Sherlock…." She started to pick things up from the floor and put them back where they belonged.

John decided to make tea while waiting for Sherlock's answer. When the water was boiling and Sherlock hadn't answered John started to get nervous.

'If you don't tell me where you are within three minutes. I will ring Mycroft! JW'

John had only time to hang the teabag into the cup when his phone broadcasted the arrival of a text.

'Purchasing.'

What choice of word was that? Why didn't he say shopping? Was he doing something illegal? Sherlock never went to stores… Well he had last week in fact, and he had of course before when he needed something, but this was odd.

'Where? JW'

'Stop asking for thr obvious. Shop od course.'

John rolled his eyes. He felt deliberately misunderstood… and typos, Sherlock's fingers really seemed stiff, but why wasn't he even trying to type correctly?

John sat down at the dinner table, a bit unsure what to do.

After a moment he decided to just wait for Sherlock and read the paper. Mrs Hudson was still fetching stuff from the ground.

"You don't have to do this. Give it a rest and leave the mess for Sherlock. Sit with me for a moment, we need to talk about some things."

She made a huffing noise, as if saying 'good luck with that' but said nothing.

When she had sat down John carefully explained the situation to her and why they needed to keep an eye on the detective and how.

He didn't give her any details, but when she asked - and she asked a lot, and even the 'right' questions - John answered truthfully but tried to soften the whole thing a bit, nevertheless she had tears in her eyes when she understood what had happened during the past week.

John asked her to call him immediately and gave her instructions what to do should Sherlock have something like a panic attack or was behaving strange. She agreed and then obviously needed to do something to keep herself busy and started to clean up again. John had finished his breakfast and helped her with it.

When he passed the violin he picked her up. The torn chord was gone. The bow was also on the table, the ripped hair a mess around it. The violin itself looked fine. No harm done. No scores or cracks, she looked like always.

His phone chirped and he put her back on the table.

'Need milk? Back im 20.'

Well, that was actually kind. John stood up and checked the fridge.

_'Yes, milk, toast and sugar would be nice. Thank you. JW'_ He texted back.

They had roughly cleaned up the living room when John heard Sherlock unlock the front door.

The former army doctor went to the kitchen to put the kettle on once more, deciding that making a scene about the fright Sherlock's absence had given him was not the right option after last night.

Sherlock entered the kitchen through the hallway door and placed a grocery bag on the table.

The doctor looked up at him and tried to sound casual when he asked "Fancy some tea?" Sherlock looked away and returned to the hall to hang up his coat. John had caught a glimpse of his face and Sherlock still looked awful. His eyes were swollen and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Yes." The detective answered, it was barely more than a breath.

He had sat down on the couch and the violin was in his lab when John entered the living room with the tea.

Several pieces of equipment and some tools lay on the table, together with what looked like new strings and a bundle of new hairs for the bow. But the funniest thing was a miniature vice, a comb and something that looked like an antique alcohol lamp. John put the mug down in front of Sherlock and sat on the nearest chair to watch him.

The detective gently and slowly installed the new chord, John could see now that his hands were stiffer than usual, now that he was giving it attention, and not only the right one, both of them.

"What?" Sherlock asked and John realized he might be staring.

"Oh, nothing, I just have never seen you doing this. What is that?" He pointed towards an object Sherlock had just picked up from the table. Partially to end the heavy silence and partially to show Sherlock he was neither angry nor staring at his hands.

"Finetuner."

John continued to ask, and listened to Sherlock's explanations while the other man finished tuning the chords.

Then he started putting the new bundle of hair into the bow.

It took quite some time and it was a lot of work. It looked more like an operation than a repair. Sherlock's stiff fingers weren't helping. John wondered if asking him to help would be good but then decided this was a ritual Sherlock needed to do alone. It was like a healing ritual, taking care of the instrument.

When he had tried to place a tiny object into a small space at the top that held the bundle of hair in place Sherlock dropped it twice and then dropped the tweezers he tried instead of his hands. When John looked at his face it showed resignation and waiting for a better option to do this and irritation and… shame? But he didn't dare to say something.

Sherlock didn't move for several seconds, was just pressing his lips together in a mixture of puckered and pressed into a line and John was sure he was trying to control his frustration, then held out the small wooden square to John.

"You're a surgeon, you are skilled to assist with this. Put that in there."

John did, with awe about the trust he was given. But he did no more than what Sherlock told him, still not wanting to take over a too much active role in this. Sherlock needed some confirmation that he was capable after all, his own state was getting to him enough. Everything that would underline his abilities or show that he doing good was desperately needed. Since the case had brought in enough fails John assumed it was really putting a strain on Sherlock's patience not to manage things he wanted to be done. The doctor returned to his former place at the other side of the table.

Sherlock managed the rest almost on his own, using the tweezers and it seemed his fingers were less stiff after the lengthy task of repairing the bow was done.

Sherlock stored the bow away and picked up a black rubber object that looked like a comb with only five large fingers and placed it over the strings of the violin.

"What's that?"

"Mute."

"What? …. Why didn't you used that before, especially at nightimes?"

"I did. But the old one was not as good as this one will be… And I used it for an experiment a long while ago… it's broken."

"So you've been shopping violin equipment?"

"Obviously. Music store… nice one."

"You've been at the _music_ store for over two hours?"

"Yes. It's a large store with a variety of ….."

"You've been nowhere else?"

"Grocery store… Are you finished interrogating me?"

"Sorry. I was worried. Please just leave a note next time."

"Yes." Sherlock simply agreed and stored the violin in her case without playing.

"You are not playing? Trying out the new stuff?"

"No… Try not to ask the obvious so much, would you? It's exhausting." Sherlock informed him in a neutral tone and fetched his tea, which must be cold by now, he sipped it without reacting to that inconvenience. "Can we use your car again tonight?"

"Now you're asking the obvious… I mean sure… or are you're trying to practise manners again?" John asked kindly and smiling at him.

"Yes." The other man simply answered, then booted his laptop and started typing in silence.

John hesitated a moment before he returned to the kitchen to do some more cleaning up.

.

The doctor in him decided that he needed to find out a bit more about last night. So, when they sat in the car later, observing the flat in the middle of the night, he asked.

"Sherlock, tell me about the violin."

They had already talked about the case, all kind of nonsense (like Anderson's new look) and kind of run out of light small talk topics.

"What about the violin?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I want to know from you, so tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Hey, it's me… I want to know why you haven't played any of the lovely pieces you used to play before the fall. I assume you haven't played before I stayed over, either… and I want to know why it…" He stopped himself in the last moment before saying 'freaked you out' "…why it stressed you so bad when I touched her some days ago."

"It's okay for you to touch her… and I just didn't feel like playing."

"I don't believe you." John stated plainly, in a calm and kind voice.

Sherlock's posture screamed 'uneasy' and tense, even more than he already was these days.

"Stop nagging me with this nonsense, I need to think!" Now, that was definitely a virtual door in John's face. Sherlock had opened up about so much recently but this was clearly a very massive door or a very sore spot.

John decided to do some more careful prodding nevertheless.

"It was something I did then?" John stated carefully.

Sherlock continued to stare out of the window into the dark. Either he was ignoring him because of the topic or it was a 'yes'.

"Whatever I did, I am sorry."

That got Sherlock's attention and when he looked sideways briefly John could see the distress and something more accrue in his eyes.

"Shut up." Sherlock's voice had a warning undertone and he fumbled for his mobile immediately, maybe to appear busy.

John considered again if provoking him with this to find out what was actually wrong would be a good idea. What had he done?

John reached for Sherlock's mobile and slowly blocked the screen with his fingers.

"Talk to me."

"I don't want to talk, let me work."

"What did I do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock let the phone sink and John flinched back when he saw the clenched jaw and the boiling anger in Sherlock's eyes.

"Nothing!" The detective hissed between clenched teeth.

"Your face says something else. Talk to me, I want to know if I hurt you. I want this friendship to work again, and that means I need to know what I did wrong, come on."

Sherlock undid his seatbelt.

"Stay here! Stop running away!" He gripped Sherlock's arm, not with force.

When he heard Sherlock's surprised gasp he let go immediately, not sure what it meant.

Sherlock threw the manila folder with the paper evidence through the gap between the seats and the papers flew through the interior of the car. There'd probably have been shards if they had been at 221b right now.

John frowned.

Sherlock was frustrated and angry! He had done dramatic things like this before, but John had never felt this sizzling agitation radiating off him. And the most dangerous thing was the absolutely emotionless mask on Sherlock's face. Whenever Sherlock had done things like this before he had displayed exaggerated mimics about something, and John couldn't remember an incident ever before when the detective had been really angry at him. Sherlock didn't direct anger at him… he didn't vent like that. He expressed frustration or was unnerved, but not like this.

"I do not wish to talk." Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sounding desperate now.

John carefully touched his upper right arm again. The fact that Sherlock had not yet run away signalled something… He would have done that in the past.

"Tell me… please… I need to know if I hurt you… I don't want to hurt you again."

Sherlock gulped and John saw his jaw was clenched tightly, he pressed his lips into a thin line, staring blindly ahead.

Then the other man blinked and John saw something change… Sherlock gave up the fight.

"Bed, gun, violin." Sherlock whispered.

John closed his eyes. He had seen it coming, he had feared this was involved, but what was it that hurt Sherlock so much with that fact? He wished Sherlock had not seen the footage, he was ashamed to have been so shattered in the weeks after the fall and on the other hand still felt the shadows of the despair, the grief still so very present.

"Okay…." John needed a moment to steel himself for this topic. "What is it? Are you angry I touched her, or that I was in your bed or what?" John whispered back.

"She witnessed,…" Sherlock started, his tone agitated.

Shit, yes, she did… as did Sherlock, though a long time later… as did Mycroft, maybe even directly when it was happening… half the fucking world seemed to have seen that. Where was the bloody point? Was Sherlock angry because he had considered ending his hurt? He had no right, not after making John think he had taken his own life, making him witness it. He had no right to judge it, or John's desperation and exhaustion. John bite back a comment about that line of thoughts.

"…She was there and I wasn't." He finished the sentence, but now his tone was barely a whisper.

This made John's breath get stuck when he realized what that simple statement meant. He needed a few seconds to regain his composure, glad Sherlock was still staring blindly through the windscreen.

"That harmed you?" He asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, but there was no need, it was quite obvious.

This was the clearest sign of remorse Sherlock had shown about the whole affair yet, and there was so much hurt and regret pouring out of him right now that John felt his breath got stuck with his own emotions about that insight in Sherlock's sentiments.

He also stared out of the front window.

Sherlock's emotions were all over the place and it took several minutes before John managed to find his voice again. He decided not to comment on that and to slightly change topics.

"_Her _silence hurt me… Still hurts me… I miss her voice."

"I'm… sorry I wasn't there…." Sherlock admitted.

"What?"

Sherlock was angry at himself for not being there?

"I'm sorry." Sherlock repeated.

"Okay." He did not know what else to say. So many thoughts at once, anger, sorrow, memories of the situation, the grief from back then still present, he was just speechless with the complexity and the sheer amount of different feelings, his own and Sherlock's. He had not really seen this coming. So the detective was not angry at him, but at himself and she reminded him of his misjudgement?

John suddenly felt the need to apologise for considering the easy way out and for having her with him then.

When Sherlock was lost for words, too, John finally tried. "I almost took the reason away that had made you do everything you did… I'd understand if you were mad because I considered it. I was mad at you, too, you know, for choosing the easy way out… I was _so_ very mad and angry and hurt, Sherlock….. Why aren't you angry at me?"

John had still one hand on Sherlock's arm and felt how the other man started to tremble.

"I don't deserve to be granted anger." He mumbled.

"Er… Sherlock, anger is something you feel, not something you are allowed to have or are given permission to have." What was this about? Had Sherlock just changed topics, this statement was a bit bizarre.

"Do you also think you don't deserve her comfort, too?"

Sherlock kept quiet.

"Are you punishing yourself by not playing her?"

Sherlock was starting to shiver now. Shit….

"Easy…. Hey, come on."

John was relieved that Sherlock seemed not to be really angry at him, but wondered if he was in fact and didn't just understood it, yet. Still kind of in shock?

John needed to work on this later, but now it was necessary to change topics, this was not the right moment to head for more severe distress.

"You deserve her comfort, as did I when I had her keep me company. You are hurt enough, Sherlock, don't hurt yourself even more by denying you the few things that actually could help you feel better." John finished the subject. "Close your coat, it's cold."

"Here…" He held out a bottle of isotonic drink he had bought at a petrol station before. "You need some sugar."

"No, give me that stuff with caffeine." Sherlock demanded in a tone that did not fit the message at all. He sounded small and exhausted and it was more like a plea.

John handed over the bottle of energy drink, at least it had added artifical vitamins and stuff.

.

The rest of the night passed slowly and although John tried to be as cheerful as possible and do light conversation about neutral themes, the atmosphere was leaden.

When dawn started to paint the sky grey Sherlock suggested John slept a bit because he planned to stay another four hours… or maybe the whole day…

John tried to argue but understood that the cloak of normal-day activity would be useful if the suspect tried to inspect her flat alone before bringing the victim back here. But if he did, how would they recognize him? But Sherlock was deaf to that argument and insisted to stay.

They moved the car several times and none of them managed to actually sleep.

At about ten in the morning, when John wondered how they could manage to do this for another twenty-four hours, Lestrade called.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered. "Oh… we don't need… yes… I am not…No. … Okay, see you in an hour, then." He hung up.

"What happened?" John wanted to know.

"The other case they have is partially solved and they now need to wait for results and to interview the suspect. He and Donovan will do the surveillance until six o'clock so we can get some sleep."

"Oh, that's good."

"Not really. But I understand why I have to let them take over for a bit."

"Really?"

But Sherlock didn't explain any further, probably Greg had found a way to kick his ass when he tried to reject the offer for relieving them.

They waited around the corner and Greg entered their car in the back to get an update.

.

Half an hour later they were back in the flat and John convinced Sherlock that this was the right time to remove the stitches. It was only a matter of a few seconds and after Sherlock obediently let him do his work John headed upstairs. He was really tired, he just wanted to sleep! He fell into his bed, totally spend, but to wired to sleep as he discovered soon.

He texted Mary and listened to Sherlock rummaging around in the kitchen, clinging beakers against each other and using the Bunsen burner, if the hissing noise was any indication. What the hell was he experimenting with? There was nothing from the case that needed testing or that he had taken home.

Some hours later John resurfaced from an odd dream and turned onto his other side trying to get back to sleep. Sherlock was still making everyday common noises downstairs, at least what was common for him, now he seemed to be typing.

The rhythmic clattering of the keys lulled John back into sleep.

….

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_A/N: Thank you for reading :)_

_I'd be delighted to hear what you think about this._


	32. Chapter 32

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

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**Chapter 32**

**Friday**

The following night they spent once more surveilling the flat, Lestrade's people were again busy with their other case. This time John was more prepared. He had bought sandwiches, biscuits and a thermos with tea.

When he offered some to Sherlock in the middle of the evening Sherlock seemed shocked about the idea to drink 'old' tea.

"And how are we supposed to prevent it from getting old?"

"Just bring hot water and make fresh tea."

"Oh, you've gained some camping experience while you were away? Camped in cars a lot?"

John asked in a joking tone, he had waited for an opportunity to get some more background information about Sherlock's time away for days, not to talk about the bad stuff, just stuff at all.

"No."

"Then…?"

"Camped without cars."

"What? You camped in a tent? Sorry but I can't really picture that." John continued to draw verbal pictures, knowing Sherlock would feel the need to correct them if he was wrong.

"No."

"Oh, right. Under bridges, then?"

"Sometimes."

"What? Really?" This was a bit more shocking than the doctor had expected.

"No, I am just joking. Most of the time I managed to find abandoned buildings or drug dens." Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, come on, I was just curious to learn a bit about your time abroad."

"So why didn't you say so?"

"Okay, I just wanted to know a few things, nothing serious, just talk a bit about the little things. So, where did you sleep?"

"Abandoned buildings, cheap hotels, outsides, expensive hotels, cars, cellars, and so on. Satisfied?" Sherlock spit.

John sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to… make this awkward, just interested in a bit background stuff. Figured you are not eager to tell.

Sherlock fetched a cigarette and lit it.

"Shit, Sherlock, don't smoke in here!"

Sherlock exited the car and John watched him walk a few steps away from the car.

Well, that went great. Sherlock had not talked to him about any difficult themes lately and John saw the need to not let him get away with it. They needed to keep that level of trust up and he needed to keep an eye on his moods, which were not good lately.

The building they observed housed at least twelve flats and a lot of people went in an out in the evening, but the later it got the fewer there were. John wondered how they could find out who was who but Sherlock seemed to have figured that out already, though he didn't found it necessary to elaborate, so John just watched and tried to remember the details he was able to see in the dim light.

The first half of the night passed extremely slow and they were silent a lot of the time, the main reason was whenever John tried to make nice or fun talk Sherlock reacted unnerved or sarcastic. His attempts to entertain him by telling him all day stuff earned him that he was ignored and sometimes Sherlock even surfed with his mobile.

Overall Sherlock seemed withdrawn and tired.

The doctor spent a lot of the silent long hours thinking about how to continue talking to Sherlock and how to make Ella give him more help with Sherlock's problem, and he planned the coming week.

At around half past ten Sherlock tensed up when John was answering Mary's latest email.

The detective stared at the windows intensely.

"Saw something?"

"I see things whenever I open my eyes."

Not eager to talk, obviously. Sherlock said nothing more but relaxed back into his seat a few minutes later.

Half an hour later John fell asleep.

He woke quite some time later when Sherlock tipped his arm.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Someone might be in the flat."

"What?" John felt the adrenaline rush wake him up completely immediately.

"There is definitely a dim flickering light."

"Okay, what do we do?"

"Let's go." Sherlock grabbed the torch and left the car. John fetched his gun and hurried out to follow him.

"Sherlock, wait! What do you plan to do?" John whispered, hurrying after him.

"Just making sure there _is_ someone inside, _if_ there is we need to prevent being spotted and follow him when he leaves. If we'd take him in now we'll never find the current hostage... We need to follow him."

"So you are planning to find out how he got in…"

"Staircase first, then we check the roof, which is more likely."

They hurried into the building. And started to climb the stairs as silent as possible.

But halfway up the light was switched on and they heard someone on the stairs. Sherlock gestured John to just go on.

Two landings under the potential victim's flat a boyish looking man passed them, his head mostly concealed by a baseball cap and his greasy collar turned up.

The detective passed him as if all was normal, but the moment he had passed the young man Sherlock turned around, a frown on his face, that was clearly meant to direct John's attention to the man.

John went by him, too and looked discretely around a moment later to take a closer look at the man's statue and waited for him to turn on the landing to see his face.

But the exact moment the man also turned around and watched them. John saw that he was older than he appeared at first impression, but not older than twenty. When the man realised he was watched he turned back around and continued down the stairs. John listened to his steps, they were not getting faster and Sherlock had continued up the stairs so that it sounded as if they were normal inhabitants or visitors. Had he seen the man had seen John watch him?

When Sherlock reached the missing woman's front door, Sandra Herman was her name, he stared down at her heavy coir doormat, which was not in parallel line to the door.

"He saw me watching him, he turned around." John leaned closer to the detective and whispered, in a very low voice.

"Sure?" Sherlock looked up at him.

"Of course I'm sure, what a dumb question is that? He turned around to see if we did the same."

Sherlock pointed at the mat from a distance and took out his keys to clink them as if he was preparing to open a door. Last time they had last been here before they started their observation it had rested there in the correct way, but everyone could have jumbled it.

But to make it get stuck under the door one has to stand on it while closing the door from the outside. If a person closed it without standing on it one would be just shove it away.

"What is it?" John whispered.

"Anyone not in a hurry would have taken their time to push it back in the right direction, since the door doesn't close easily like this." Sherlock whispered, a few moments later the last steps from the other man faded and the street door closing automatically after him could be heard.

That moment Sherlock started to run down the stairs like a bat out of hell. John blinked in surprise and followed him moments later.

"I couldn't risk having him running off in alarm when we don't know where the victim is. Even if we caught him the place where she might been hidden will maybe never be found.

"We need to follow him undiscovered." Sherlock panted.

"Well, the basic idea is logical, but he looked as if he already discovered us." John answered while they ran down the stairs.

When Sherlock reached the small staircase outside the front door he stood still and listened for a moment. He looked like a statue, sharpening his senses, his eyes closed while he listened, then he started to run off into the side street at the right, John had heard the echo of faint running feet, too.

"Come on, John." Sherlock urged while starting to run full speed.

The doctor hurried after him. They ran… and John smiled, this was like old times, he had never dared to hope they would do this again, it was great!

But after a few hundred metres John realised that Sherlock was not as fit as he used to be. Sherlock was clearly having a harder time than he should have. John had not problem at all overtaking him. They rounded a corner and John could hear the suspect more clearly now that they were getting closer. He was glad he was wearing soft shoes, Sherlock's were also a lot more silent than he would have guessed. They looked like his usual shoes but must have different soles, rubber ones.

"He might be… heading to the… subway station." John theorized.

"… or the… dark park… right next to it." Sherlock added, breathing heavily.

They ran down the street and rounded the next corner, and it became more and more clear to John that Sherlock would not be able to keep up with him for long. Another two hundred metres later the doctor realised he either left him behind or they'd loose the suspect soon.

Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion because he softly yelled "Go!" behind John.

The former army doctor sped up and heard Sherlock slow down. He looked back briefly to make sure Sherlock was okay. The detective had stopped and leaned over briefly, resting his hands against his knees for two breaths and then John heard him continue to ran after him.

John gave full speed now and ran around the next corner. He saw the suspect vanished to the right the moment he spotted him, but it was too dark to see if he just went into the plants or into an driveway or a small side street.

John hurried to get there, hoping he would hear his steps ones more.

Sherlock was still behind him in the alley, the gap between them was large but he heard him run and pant. When John reached the point where the suspect had vanished he dragged his weapon out of his pocket. John could no longer hear or see him.

He stopped and held his breath to hear better. Nothing, not even normal steps in the distance, which meant Sherlock had seen him stop and also stopped to make them hear better.

He turned around to make sure Sherlock was okay and saw him stand in the middle of the street, signing him to go. John concentrated once more on listening.

Nothing. No steps, no breaking twigs, no rebounding branches or brushed past leaves. John went on to see if there was a gap in the bushes the man would have chosen to get in or hide.

He went into the vegetation were the foliage was forming a gap, slowly, making sure none was lurking in the dark.

He broke through the double line of thick bushes that opened to a line of trees and then headed to the mowed grass of the park. Street lights were on and the area was lit, so John would have been able to spot anyone running there, but the area was totally empty. He listened again and there was nothing to be heard than the soft breeze in the leaves of the trees and a distant larger street.

The man couldn't have vanished into thin air! But the grass would have quieten his steps.

John was panting, if the suspect would have stopped he'd be breathing hard, too… or having a hard time to try to breathe noiseless, he wouldn't be able to do that for long, John needed to wait just a few more moments and listen.

But he heard nothing. He waited… but even after two more minutes he wasn't able to hear anything. He cursed inwardly and wondered why Sherlock hadn't caught up with him yet. But he certainly would have made noises if the suspect would have returned to the sidewalk again.

John returned to the street, just to be sure that the man might be heading to the subway station.

Nothing.

Shit.

They had lost him. John ran further down the street, looking for more hiding places, but there was nothing, just the official entrance to the park.

Huffing with annoyance he turned around to see where Sherlock was.

The fact that Sherlock was also no longer standing in the alley made a new rush of adrenaline run through his body.

Shit, where was he?

John ran back through the alley. When he was half through and his mind was running scenarios where Sherlock had been ambushed he saw the detective kneeling with his back leaned against a wall, behind a staple of damaged euro pallets.

"Sherlock?"

When John came nearer he could see Sherlock was still breathing heavily.

"Sherlock?" John slowed down a few steps next to the detective.

Sherlock straightened and struggled to stand up straight.

"Sorry, lost him."

Sherlock hit his right fist into the brick wall, not angry about John, just frustrated with their failure. John opened his mouth in shock, that must have really hurt. But the detective kept a straight face.

"You're okay?"

Sherlock pushed himself from the wall, starting to walk. This was the first sign that he was not okay. The doctor saw he was walking on wobbly legs, he headed back down the street from where they had come.

"Sherlock, wait." John tried to step around him. "What did just happen?"

"Nothing."

"You ran out of breath."

Sherlock coughed "Great observation. I'm fine."

John reached for his arm and stepped in front of him. He had done that a lot lately, but this time Sherlock didn't slow down his steps, he just looked at him, into his eyes.

"I'm fine, John!" He said with an icy tone, but John could see his sadness and the pain in his eyes.

A few moments later they had reached the corner of the street where the car was.

While walking the detective pulled his phone from his pocket and had hit a speed dial button. John fell into steps besides him again.

"Lestrade, we believe we met out suspect,… no… he fled. He seemed to have recognised us when we passed him in the stairway…. No….. Yes, we saw a light in the flat….. yes…. We will go in there now…. No….. No. I said we will go in there now…. Then you better get here fast." He hung up.

They were back at the house's entrance.

Sherlock switched on the light and went up the stairs but was panting hard again when they finally reached the young woman's front door. He tried to suppress his loud breathing and produced a key. With clumsy and shaking fingers he then tried to fit it in the lock, it took three tries until he managed to get the key inside the lock, his efforts to be as silent as possible made the task even harder. John just stood there and watched, knowing addressing it would be a total waste of time and only cause more frustration.

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A/N:

_Thank you for reading._

__And thanks to all the great readers who take their time to read my stories, favourite them and/or left a review for me.__


	33. Chapter 33

**Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._…

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**Chapter 33**

**Friday**

"Lestrade gave it to me." Sherlock commented in a low voice and John frowned, sure Sherlock had nicked the key. "We wait until the light switches off again."

It did several seconds later and while Sherlock turned the key very silently and slowly, John readied his weapon.

Sherlock slowly pushed the door open and they saw there was a dim light on in the living room, like from nightlights or a very small lamp, they could not really sea it because the door was made of milk glass.

They quietly entered the flat, looking around every corner before going forward. It was total silence in there and John went to take a look into the bedroom while Sherlock waited. John came back shaking his head, there was none there.

They both briefly looked into the kitchen and then headed to the milk glass door of the living room. When Sherlock opened it John made a surprised huff, hurried to look into every corner and then hastened into the room.

Sherlock followed him, and then saw it, too. A young woman was on the sofa, looking as if sleeping. He switched on the ceiling lamps. And saw that her eyes were wide open.

The doctor was already taking her pulse and watching her pupils react to the light of this torch. It was clearly the missing woman.

Sherlock went ahead to search through the rest of the flat for an accomplice. None there.

"All clear." He reported to John in a low voice, it was the first time they spoke since before opening the door.

"Sandra?… Sandra, can you hear me?" John tried to get a response from the young woman.

Why had the suspect left? It was surely not the time to get some cheap pizza from a nearby store… or was it? The detective checked his phone for the nearest grocery store that was open 24/7, and he _found_ one.

When had the suspect brought the woman in? Not while they were watching from the car? At least not through the main entrance, and the back one only open into the patio. They'd need to check for other ways to access later.

He and John had made sure none was in the flat before they started the surveillance and there was nothing visible from the outside of the light in here.

Sherlock checked the windows and found that they had been covered completely from the inside with what looked like professional window covers for photographers, darkroom equipment or something similar, those hadn't been there before, and they had been installed in the dark or the near dark. When he had thought he had seen something briefly in the evening at the windows, had that been actually when the killer had blocked the windows, had he been so careful? Why should he? Had he seen the police there on Wednesday and decided it was long enough ago to risk it? Unlikely, he wouldn't have brought her here if he hadn't been sure they'd be undisturbed, but why the window coating? He had waved what he had seen aside since he saw no more movements, dumb!

The detective returned to the hallway to look for anything else the suspect might have left behind, a backpack or some equipment.

He heard John speaking to the woman in a low and soothing voice. So she was alive and probably conscious, just paralysed.

The doctor seemed to concentrate on trying to find ways to comfort her and telling her to blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no' if she was asked something.

"Sherlock, come here." John ordered, serious doctor mode. "Help me to lift her and put her on the ground." John continued when Sherlock stepped closer.

"Why?"

"So I have better access and she is more comfortable."

"Will she live?"

"Yes." John stroked her head and smiled at her, but when he looked up at Sherlock he grimaced a warning and hissed "Timing!"

"Why do you think she will be more comfortable on the ground." Sherlock neither understood this nor the timing-thing. Usually John said that when he had asked or said things at bad moments.

"Could you not ask awkward questions? She can't breathe properly in that position. She is fully conscious and we just scared the hell out of her."

"Can't be that bad, we are not _him_."

"But she probably thought _he_ was coming back at first."

Sherlock looked down at her and saw tears in her eyes, which were switching back and forth between the two of them. John's hand started stroking her head trying to calm her while he talked to Sherlock.

Sherlock headed for her bedroom to look for evidence there.

"Sherlock, can you help me here, please… and bring a blanket." John yelled after him.

So the detective returned with a folded duvet to the living room. The doctor had dragged away the couch table to the other side of the room.

"You are aware this is disturbing evidence?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"I will not help you put her to the ground."

"What? Why not?"

"She'd not like it…"

"Why not?"

Sherlock ignored him and turned away once more to search for evidence.

"Stay here and help me sitting her up then. I want her in a half sitting position. So she can breathe easier…. We'll help you to sit up, okay?"

Why did John wait for an answer? It didn't matter if she agreed.

Sherlock took her arm, not eager to assist in the process or to touch her.

"Sherlock, gentle movements!" John told him and carefully shoved an arm between her shoulders and the sofa. He expertly lifted her into a sitting position, preventing her head from falling back with his other hand. So careful, so caring… Sherlock just stood there and watched, then his own memory hit him. Had he looked like that too, when John took care of him before he collapsed a few days ago? The memory how it had felt when John had supported his head and guided him to the floor. So… kind and careful John. He felt his head start to hurt and gulped down some strange emotions that had just jumped him. Another thing then started to rise in his chest. He remembered how he had wished so much for John's healing hands while he was hidden in the corner of an old dark building, lying on the ground with only an old and stinky blanket, freezing, and trying to take care of dirty grazes and some other wounds, the remnants of a fight while hunting down Moriarty's people… and later when he had hallucinated that John was there while trying to fight off a fever after swimming in a frozen river to safety. The memories swirled around him, pressing tight into his head, much more graphic than he wanted them to be. But the memory of John's touch was…

"Sherlock?" John was holding the young woman upright and waited for Sherlock to give him a hand, but Sherlock didn't move. "Sherlock, now would be good, I can't do this alone."

Sherlock didn't react and John had to twist his neck to look at Sherlock without letting go of her. Sherlock stood there, holding her arm and staring into space, a painful frown on his face.

"Sherlock!" John yelled and thankfully he saw Sherlock blink twice and gulp, but when John saw the disoriented gaze he knew Sherlock had visited bad memories.

"Here, take the blanket and put it in her back, please." John's voice was softer now and he eyed the other man closely.

Sherlock did as he was told, but it was clear he was uneasy with this. When they had her positioned John gently guided her head back into the cushion. She was crying and her breathing laboured.

He rubbed her arm and talked to her in a low voice constantly, but every few moments looked at Sherlock to make sure his friend was not heading into more severe distress, too. He observed that Sherlock's eyes were on his hands most of the time and his expression a careful placed mask now.

Sherlock felt oddly naked and ashamed by seeing John caring for the woman, he fled the room, stating he wanted to look for evidence, he started in the bedroom and left the door wide open to hear everything that was going on.

John soothed her by telling her that the police was on their way and that the suspect had fled and that she was safe now. She calmed down a bit and Sherlock heard John ask her if she was taking any meds and if she had been injured or beaten. John explained to her that police and medical help would be here soon and told her not to be afraid of the expected chaos.

Four minutes later John heard Lestrade bang at the door and Sherlock opened.

And chaos it was, about twelve people flooded the flat. After a briefing with the paramedics the young woman was taken to hospital with police protection. It took half an hour before John had the first quiet moment to step to Sherlock and look at him closely again.

"You're okay?" He whispered, so that none would hear it.

"Yes." Was the unnerved answer.

"You are in pain and something unsettled you before, what happened?"

"I am fine." Sherlock hissed.

"Your head hurts." John stated, observing the signs.

Sherlock turned away and hurried to Lestrade's side. Bombarding him with details of the chase and what he had found in the flat, which was not much.

Another hour later they finally left the flat, though Lestrade and his team where far from being finished with the scene.

The young woman was in hospital and they had been informed than that she was physically fine. How much damage the time in the hands of the serial murder and the total defencelessness and helplessness during that episode in which she was paralysed had done to her psyche was not yet observable. John was sure she had a pretty rough time ahead with that kind of trauma.

It was getting light outside and Sherlock headed straight to John's car. As soon as they were inside John fetched some paracetamol and his sunglasses from the glove compartment.

"Here, for the headache."

Sherlock shook his head slowly to the pills but took the sunglasses.

"Okay, let's get home, then."

The detective said nothing but leaned his head back against the headrest, giving John a short sideways look, John had no clue at all what it meant.

Sherlock looked just tired and silently unnerved and…? But although John didn't know what Sherlock wanted to communicate right now or if at all, another thing sprang into his focus. The other man had started to communicate with his eyes again in the past twenty-four hours.

In the past, before the fall, they had communicated with gazes a lot. But since Sherlock's return that communication had been kind of muted or muffled. It was like one of their communication methods had been cut off. Maybe that was a bit why John had kind of felt so disconnected from Sherlock.

John had been aware that Sherlock's mimic was almost not present since his return and only now he realized how much they relied on that. Before Sherlock had not only broadcasted, he had relied on John reading and John found reading him easy and reacted according to what he saw. They had no problems coordinating silently, though he had never been sure if Sherlock was able to read him, or maybe he was able but ignored emotional stuff consequently? However, the dynamics had been, it had worked really well and John had always liked how they just fit, how their actions just worked together, how their coordination had intertwined, how much fun it was when it worked… and that none else was able to read it, most of the time, though Lestrade was getting better at it.

Whatever it was, now that John had seen Sherlock's first hesitating tries to start that way of communicating again he realised how much he had missed it. _This_ coming back was a really good sign. Had Sherlock deliberately switched it off while John wasn't there. Or had it gone away because the receiver had been gone? Or because it was to dangerous to show his thoughts with the things he had to do?

John decided he would incentivise Sherlock to use it as often as possible, encouraging him to use it again… and try to tune into it himself again.

"Breakfast?" John asked, throwing the no longer needed observation equipment to the backseat.

"No. Tea would be great though."

"Buckle up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling and John laughed.

"Yeah, you are no longer at the arse-end of the world. Here, there are traffic rules."

"Oh, I missed those, especially those about on which side you are supposed to drive." Sherlock spoke to the ceiling with a vague smile. He had already said that some days before.

"So you are really glad to be back in London? You missed it?"

"What kind of a stupid question is that! Of course I missed London. It's liked…." But he failed to come up with a comparison. "You should know how it is to be away, having been in Afghanistan." John doubted he felt as close to London as Sherlock did. Sherlock seemed to need _this_ city. John would have been able to work in another city if he had too, for Sherlock the idea seemed profoundly wrong.

"I bet London is almost as glad as I am to have you back here." John said.

John wondered how hard Sherlock had taken it that the suspect had escaped.

"This is kind of the opposite of your past two years, to switch from absolute secrecy to being famous within three days, isn't it?" John expressed his thoughts. "Must have been kind of a culture shock."

"Definitely need to get used to that again, didn't think of that today. He probably got away because of that." Sherlock continued sarcastically "Probably because both our faces have been in the media so often in the past weeks that all London knew exactly what we look like. I should have made you get up there, you are less noticeable alone. Dumb!" He spit.

"Sherlock, we saved a life here. Be grateful for that, that is actually a big thing. She will live… and we'll get him later. Come on, tomorrow we'll find a way to hunt him down, now we are glad to have saved a life, be a bit optimistic. We will fetch him, no doubts." John tried to lighten the mood. Sherlock gave him a small faked and exhausted smile.

John started the car and they headed home.

.

When they reached 221b John pushed Sherlock into the sofa before Sherlock had time to get out of his coat.

"Let me take a look at your hand."

John didn't wait for Sherlock to protest, he grabbed Sherlock's forearm and carefully pulled it into the light of the standard lamp, he sat down on the coffee table once more and had kind of an déjà-vu.

Sherlock exhaled unnerved but said nothing.

The hand was clearly bruised from when Sherlock had hit the wall in frustration. John carefully checked for broken bones or other injuries for the second time in a few days.

He was sure it hurt when he stretched every single finger to check it and pressed over the metacarpals, but Sherlock didn't even blink, he just stared ahead.

John sighed, shaking his head.

"Why are your hands so stiff, Sherlock?" John had his own theories, but he wanted Sherlock to actually say it.

"My wrists and hands weren't overenthusiastic about me hanging from a ceiling for days, they went numb, but gladly they decided to get feeling back after I wasn't any longer bound."

"Bet that hurt a lot."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Okay… I guess this hurts, too… Bloody stupid, you know… You are lucky, nothing broken. Let me get some salve and let me bandage that."

"No."

"Why not?"

"No!" Sherlock yelled and pulled his hand out of John's probing hold.

"Okay, then some ointment and you wait a few minutes until it's absorbed. Get out of the coat."

John stood up and collected a salve containing painkillers.

When he returned Sherlock was booting his laptop and John had to wait until he could fetch Sherlock's hand because Sherlock was not volunteering to held it out. His body language was in fact a bit dismissive.

He ignored John taking care of the hand but did not resist, and as soon as John let go of it used it to type in his login data for something, getting salve on the keys, luckily it was a gel ointment not a greasy one.

"The more you allow it to rest the faster it will heal, you know."

"I'm fine."

"Of course… I need some sleep. I will make tea before I go to bed." John didn't ask him if he wanted any, just placed a cup next to his left hand before he went up the stairs. John was sure this was Sherlock punishing himself for being not capable to run fast enough before, he had not the violin hand, though. But no doubt holding the bow would hurt. But since Sherlock didn't play it doesn't matter.

.

It took him quite some time to finally manage to drift off. The events making it hard to sleep, kind of. He slipped into sleep several times, but woke again short times later, when his subconsciousness provided dreams he wasn't really fond of, like Sherlock hanging from a ceiling he sat up frustrated and drank some of the now cold tea that was left on his bedside table.

He tried to concentrate on other things but woke up two hours later again.

When he finally started to drift off again he heard a low and slow melody from somewhere, or was he already dreaming?

He sat up straight in his bed and listened.

The melody sounded vaguely familiar and there was definitely someone playing a violin!

He let himself fall back into the pillows again and sighed.

The melody was melancholy and slow but Sherlock was really playing!

Finally!

He listened closely, savouring the moment. Then stood up and opened the door wide, it had been ajar before. He returned to his bed.

There were flaws in the playing here and there.

Sherlock was also playing kind of careful, not using the volume the instrument had, as if he didn't dare to play loud. The mute was also working, but it was not was made the tones so hesitant and careful.

It was clearly distinguishable Sherlock hadn't been playing for a long long time and that his fingers didn't respond to his commands adequately, yet. But at least he was training them with this. His right hand must be hurting a lot with this but he didn't stop after he had finished the first piece.

John felt his emotions intensify when Sherlock changed rhythms and played a piece that sounded a lot more familiar, Sherlock had played that quite often in the past. John smiled into his pillow in the artificial dark of his room.

The playing got better over time and half an hour later it was still slow and halting here and there, but there were no wrong tones any longer.

John was sure this was a large step forward in Sherlock's recovery and quite some time later he relaxed into sleep again, this was good!… And it _felt_ good, too.

…

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_Thank you for reading and following and favouriting and reviewing! You guys are great! :)_


	34. Chapter 34

**Information about the new chapter.**

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_The next chapter is online!_

_As I told you before (around chapter 8 or something) I divided the story into two parts, the last chapter (Chapter 33) was actually the last one of the first story and the next chapter is in a new story, which is already online!_

**_Just go to my profile and select the story 'Define vulnerability'. It will neatly continue where this one stopped._**

_I didn't tell you before because actually I planned to have the new chapter published last week, but there were some unforeseen changes in my life that made me unable to concentrate on writing during the past weeks, it was kind of difficult stuff and had me absolutely stunned for days until I was able to adjust._

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_I didn't like the story to get too long, there will be approximately another 15 to 20 chapters ahead._

_So I'd love to have you with me for the second part, too  
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_What's ahead: more mind palace sessions, acts of friendship, healing and dealing with it all ahead… and the solving of the case, of course!_

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_If you liked this story up to this point please leave some feedback/ a review, constructive criticism welcome!  
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_Special thanks to all the kind and awesome people who followed, favourit-ed me and / or already wrote a review._

_Thank you so much, this means a lot to me._

_Greetings, _

_Pierced Blue Cat_


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